Scheherazade
by Cadence Claire
Summary: All Draco needed to complete his ideal was a partner. And then came Harry. Featuring Oscar Wilde, leather tomes, Gothic architecture, coffee drinks, and a hint of unbridled abuse. Ignores last book. H/D Slash. WIP.
1. Introduction

** Scheherazade**

**Summary: A tale of abuse, hidden relationships and reconciliation. When you've lost all inspiration, who will be the one to help you tell your story? A Draco/Harry Romance. Slash. Post-War. Includes HBP canon.  
**

He started writing during the war.

He came into his tent late at night, sopping wet and bone tired after searching for Horcruxes in torrential tsunamis and intricate books without success. It was common knowledge among his companions that he did not wish to be disturbed after coming back for the night, and so he was left blissfully alone. Then, left to his own devices, his brain simultaneously shut down and jumped into action all at once.

A thought skipped across the surface of his mind and he absently grabbed a quill from his traveling pack and scribbled chicken-scratched letters onto the side of a battle order. A letter from Remus informed him of things going on in Britain and reminded him to stay safe.

The war progressed and as Voldemort sightings and Death Eater skirmishes grew closer to home and increased in their intensity, so did his ideas.

He borrowed sheets from a journal Hermione kept one night, snuck into his tent, and combined his ideas into a story. There were no big words, dazzling analogies or any real substance. But it was his. Just his.

Writing was a dirty secret he kept to himself. He could write his ideas into anything - fairytale romances, toe-curling terror, or scenes of forbidden lust. The brilliant thing about it was that he could write what he wanted; there were no limitations, like in other things.

Soon it consumed him. He was leading a war against darkness while in his mind he manipulated characters into daring escapades and beyond. He loved it.

Maybe almost too much.

"Harry, where do you go at night?" Ron asked.

"To my tent," said Harry as he finished filling up his canteen, stepping aside so Ron could have his turn at the tap.

"I'm not that thick. I know you're in your tent, but, I mean," Ron kept his eyes on Harry even as he moved forward, "you have to be doing something else, right?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, taking a drink, wishing Ron would stop staring at him like he _knew _something.

"Well," Ron's eyes were now directed at the steady stream of water pouring into his own canteen, "I know if it were me I'd go absolutely stark raving mad all holed up by myself night after night with no one to talk to. It just seems like you're doing something, or going somewhere or bloody something that keeps you sane while you're by yourself."

"Nah," Harry took another deep drink, "I just need time to think. I've got a lot going on right now. Obviously," Harry snorted, cocking his head to the mini-society behind him as Ron looked back.

"Yeah, obviously." Ron said with half a smile. "Me and Hermione are here, though. If you ever need to talk or if you ever do go stark raving mad, because let's face it mate, you're not that far out of the nut house."

"I'll keep that in mind." Harry said dryly.

"You know," Ron said, turning off the water supply and closing the lid to his canteen, "I thought that's what you were doing. Thinking and all that, but you know how Hermione gets."

Harry nodded with a grin as Ron turned around and the pair began to walk back to the encampment they had called home for over six months.

"You might want to talk to her about it, come to think. Let her know you're not doing anything stupid or running off on secret missions."

"Is that what she thought?"

"It's _Hermione._" Ron said.

"Good point."

"Eh, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you met that new bloke that's been floating around here?"

"Course. Why?"

"I just don't trust him." Ron said, turning red.

"Ron, of course you don't trust him. You know if he weren't sniffing around Hermione you would be fine with him."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is."

"Whatever," Ron grumbled, stuffing the hand that did not hold his canteen into his pocket. "Wanna sit?"

Harry did.

The camp was nice like that. There was always a place to sit when you needed one. Harry supposed the designer knew that comfort in war was as much a necessity as wands were. The cleared out patch of land did not even resemble a war camp, or at least the type Harry had grown up seeing in Dudley's old muggle movies. If anything the camp reminded him of the Quidditch World Cup. On the outside each tent was compact and unobtrusive, but on the inside everything was colorful and cavernous.

"It's weird not seeing people outside, isn't it?" Harry asked.

Ron grunted in reply.

That was another thing about the camp. People did not go outside unless they were coming or going. Moody insisted, called it a safety measure and enlisted Hagrid to dig underground tunnels connecting the tents together. Nobody questioned Moody.

Harry understood the practicality of it, but the feeling of desertion unnerved him all the same.

"What gets me is the silence." Ron said, pushing his boots into the dirt.

They were in the middle of a forest somewhere on the outskirts of Germany. Moody also insisted, with the help of old Professor Flitwick, that all the trees be enchanted to grow as tall and thick as spells would make them. That way no sounds could be let out. Nothing attracted more attention than the sounds of life in the middle of a forest, Moody said. The only problem was that the thatched together birch trees did not let sound in, which created an all together dead feel to the place.

"We have a meeting with Moody today." Ron said.

"Do we?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, I figured you wouldn't have paid attention when he announced it the last time. You were too busy doodling on that notepad of yours."

"Hmm. All right, then."

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you always doodling in that notepad?"

"Why do you care?" Harry snapped.

"You're my best mate."

"So?"

"So, I just want to know what's going on with you." Ron said as he scrambled to his feet. "I know you're thinking and stuff, but I don't know, Harry. You're acting awfully secretive. Like you've got something to hide."

"That's ridiculous. What would I have to hide?" Harry asked hotly, pushing himself out of his sitting position and staring up at Ron.

"That's just the thing – I. Don't. Know."

Ron walked away before Harry could come up with a retort.

Maybe it was better that way.

Harry became manic. All he thought about was killing Voldemort and pages of words that melded into meaning, caressing him like a lover's embrace. He dismissed reports of trepidation that spies for Voldemort had worked their way under the wing of the Phoenix. He did not even blink when Ron came to tell him that Hermione and the bloke he did not trust had been sent out on a mission together. He did not even stop to turn when he overheard news that Malfoy Manor had been raided, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy dead in the wake.

"HARRY!"

"Hermione?"

"He – "

Whatever the cause of her distress was Harry did not know, because at that moment Hermione dissolved into tears. Aching, wrenching, gnawing tears.

"What happened?" Harry asked, rushing forward just as Ron sped into the hall Harry and Hermione were occupying. "Ron?"

"Mate," Ron took a few halting steps forward, his eyes oddly wet. "We tried."

"Tried what?" Harry asked, his voice catching in desperation.

Ron stopped and watched Hermione throw herself into Harry's arms before he spoke again.

"Remus is dead."

"Dead?"

"We got there too late." Ron said, crossing his arms across his chest and shutting his eyes.

"Dead?" Harry repeated.

"Harry." Hermione gasped his name as her tears soaked through his thin shirt.

It hit Harry that moment. Hit him so hard it was almost as if every realization he had ever had in his life was being relived one after the other after the other after the other – he had no parents. No godfather. No mentor. No adult.

And by the sound of Hermione's moans she realized the exact same thing.

The news came in later that the attack that had claimed Remus' life had also taken the lives of Gred and Forge Weasley. They had died defending their tiny shop in Diagon Alley whose only surviving remains were smoke and dead bodies.

"Ron?"

"Go away Harry."

"Hey, just let me – "

"NO." Ron roared, "No, just go away."

"You – "

"Why are you suddenly so interested in being my best mate?" Ron snapped, his eyes burning with a sort of disdain Harry never thought he would see coming from the one friend he valued above all others.

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't be trying to sit with me if I hadn't just lost my brothers. You would be off in that fucking tent of yours scribbling on your stupid notebook and ignoring me."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? Do you think I never needed you before now? That the only time I ever need you around is if somebody dies?"

"No – I"

"Just go away, Harry. Go away before I say something I don't mean."

Harry did leave. He left with the knowledge that he was the worst friend anyone could ask for, but apparently Hermione had other ideas.

"You heard all that?" Harry asked her.

She nodded, pushing herself off the wall she had been leaning on as Harry shut the door to the room Ron was in. He noticed her cheeks held fresh tear tracks.

"Don't listen to anything he just said." She said quietly, walking forward silently, linking her arm with Harry's and leading him down the hall. "He just wants you to hurt as much as he does right now."

"How d'you know?"

Hermione smiled sadly. "Because, he just did the exact same thing to me."

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed." Harry felt her sigh more than heard her. "They want us in the boardroom. The wards went off a bit ago and Moody wants to have a talk."

They continued to walk in silence with Hermione steering Harry the whole way. He rather liked not having to maneuver himself. He did stop her, however, when they were about to enter Moody's lair.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

"I'm as all right as I can be."

Harry thought she was the strongest witch he ever had the pleasure to meet. And he told her.

"Thank you, Harry." She said, followed by a chaste kiss on the cheek. "Sometimes I wonder if you've forgotten about me."

He was about to tell her he had not when she placed a finger upon his lips to silence him and used her other hand to key them into the boardroom.

Harry didn't like the boardroom. When he had mentioned the fact to Hermione she gave him a lecture about his Fourth Year demons and considering the fact that the boardroom was technically Moody's office, well, his reaction was to be expected. Harry thought it was something else. It was the way the room always held a pervasive, chalky smell. It was the way the lighting flickered and made him flinch while he tried to take down notes. It was the cluttered feel of the place, but most of all it was the knowledge that the only time Moody ever invited you in was in the beginning or in the aftermath of a major battle. And within each of Moody's lectures there was always the unspoken promise of a loved one soon to be lost, or, as in the current case, the memory of those so recently departed.

That atmosphere, though, was the furthest thing from Harry's mind as he was prodded through the doorway by Hermione. He froze.

Moody stood in the front of the crowded room with his magical eye pointed towards the back of his head in the direction of a bloodied, seated Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy looked strikingly similar to the way he had looked on the night of Dumbledore's death. He had the look of someone whose body had tried to grow, but had given up halfway through the process. He was thin, long and bony at every angle. His already pale complexion shone a deathly shade of white under Moody's intense lighting. His cheek bones were sunk in and the skin around his eyes was bruised. The normally styled hair was matted to the sides of his face with blood, sweat and dirt. The cloak he was wearing was shredded down one side and the shirt he was wearing only had half of its buttons. In his arms Malfoy clutched tight onto a handful of papers. Harry watched as every few seconds he would run a soot blackened thumb over the parchment's edge.

Moody began to bark out the details of Diagon Alley, while a piece of chalk moved itself up and down a large chalkboard illustrating the details. Quills started scratching at pads of paper with their owners looking away every now and again to remove an offending tear.

Harry did not move his eyes away from Malfoy once.

Moody began talking about Malfoy as though he was a mosquito. He had shown up and there was nothing to do with him other than test his intentions with Veritaserum and sign him into the ranks. They could not get rid of him for fear that he would defect back to the Death Eaters with the sole intentions of revealing the location of their camp. Harry felt as though that was a bit unfair, especially after Moody declared that Malfoy had provided them with key Death Eater whereabouts and all the knowledge he held about past and future attacks.

It was Malfoy, though, so he did not voice his thoughts.

Hermione, however, did.

"I just can't believe Moody sometimes. The way he treats people." She snarled as she and Harry pushed themselves out of the boardroom along with everyone else who had been in attendance at the meeting. "He's always been a brat, but he was never evil. He just got raveled up in something he couldn't handle. He's sort of like us."

"No, he's not." Harry said.

"Harry, yes he is." Hermione said, her exasperation clear. "It's all very cliché. He was born with a destiny exactly the same as you were. He was the dark side's prodigy just like you were the light's and just like you he felt like he didn't have a choice about which side he would join. But he's grown up now, Harry. His presence here proves that he knows he chose wrong. Weren't you listening to what Moody said at all? We should give Malfoy a shot, because thanks to his information the Order has the chance to save thousands of lives."

"But he's still Malfoy."

"And you're still Potter." Hermione said with a dim twinkle in her eye. "Is that all the problem is?"

"No." Harry said - a touch indignant.

"Then you better figure out what it is and do something about it, because I can guarantee you that you'll end up having to work with him at some time or another before this war is finished."

"Fine. D'you want to get breakfast in the morning?"

"Can't. I'm going on a scouting mission with Thomas."

"Ron doesn't like him."

"I know."

"Do you like that he doesn't like him?" Harry asked.

"A bit."

Women were so confusing.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow night then?"

"Of course you will. Someone has to take care of you and Ron."

"Good night then."

"Night, Harry." Hermione said, giving him a firm hug and a pat on the back. "Do me a favor and remember what I said?"

"Promise." Harry muttered. He heard her laughing lightly despite the day's distress as he turned and walked the halls to his own tent.

Harry slept fitfully that night and every night after that.

Voldemort sent him dreams of screaming Weasleys and a mangled, crucified Remus and Harry knew, deep down he knew, that the casualties incurred were not coincidence. Those he loved were targeted first.

Hermione pulled back from Harry, not because of want, but because of circumstance. Moody put her on every assignment he could, calling her the best brain they had.

Ron did not, could not, get over the loss of his brothers. Harry seemed to only get in the way.

Then there was Malfoy. Malfoy who stayed in his rooms until ten in the morning and retired promptly at eight, but in the interim was as dedicated, if not more so, than all the other members of the Order. They had had a few brief conversations that mostly consisted of passed papers and murmured thank you's, but Harry thought it was a fair start.

Harry began to wonder over Hermione's words more and more as the days filled up and flew by.

Through writings and characterizations, Harry had learned that things were not what they appeared to be on the surface. He had come to grips with the fact that there was no black and white in the world - there was no good, nor was there evil. It all just was.

So, it was with an air of unexpected benevolence that Harry Potter pondered the fate of one Draco Malfoy.

It became another obsession. Another story.

Harry began weaving strands of the war, memories of life on Privet Drive, schoolyard rivalries, betrayals, alliances, pain, confusions, struggles, uncertainty, love, lies, and anything else he could think of into a thick, sprawling, pasted-together tome on the life of a hero. He titled it with the words i _Closets to Narnia /i _, signed his name with swirling cursive letters, and tucked it under his cot.

He was quite proud of it.

While Harry had been whittling away at his masterpiece, the Death Eaters, to his great dismay, had grown in number and strength.

"Potter!"

Harry stopped in the hall at Moody's gruff voice.

"You're on the field tonight."

Harry turned and sighed. That meant this was a big one. Moody never sent him out unless there was a greater than chance probability Voldemort would be making a cameo.

"Sir?"

"This is one of Malfoy's battles. Confirmed through Veritaserum. I still don't trust him. Constant vigilance, Potter, constant vigilance. Once a death eater always a death eater."

Harry nodded. It was wise not to say anything when Moody got on one of his bents.

"We're sending him out."

"Malfoy?"

A grunt of affirmation.

"Why?"

"I don't like it any more than you do. Malfoy knows the way these things are set up. He's guaranteed to be at this one. We've gotten them too many times now. He wants to know why."

"Sir?"

"Go find Malfoy. You're portkeying out with him. Stay next to him all night."

Harry wanted to protest. He really did. He wanted to scream that Malfoy could look after himself. He had found his way to their camp unassisted, hadn't he?

Instead Harry turned away and retreated to his rooms where he dressed in black and fastened a spare wand to a holster on his thigh.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Coming," called Harry.

Well, he had been coming. At least he had been until he tripped over a stack of parchment on the floor and hurdled head first into the bureau.

"All right?" A too familiar voice sounded and once more there was pounding at the door.

Harry inwardly cursed. How great was that? He had a schoolyard nemesis at the door and blood trickling down his left cheek at the same time.

"Coming!"

He searched the crowded room in vain for a rag, and upon giving up and not wanting to dirty his sheets grabbed one of the pieces of parchment he had tripped over and held it to his temple.

"Classy," Malfoy greeted once Harry had pried the door open.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"Don't be daft." Malfoy said with a pointed glare at Harry's attire.

"I knew that!" Harry protested. "I thought I was supposed to go find you!"

"I beat you to it." Malfoy said, peering over Harry's shoulder at his mess. "Obviously."

"Fine, let's just go." Harry pushed past Malfoy and into the hallway.

"Not so fast."

Harry flinched when he felt Draco's firm grip take hold of his wrist.

"Malfoy, we don't have time to wait." Harry said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, my apologies." Draco didn't sound sorry at all. "I wasn't aware that you wanted to go charging out into battle holding a piece of parchment to that gaping hole in your skull. Does it help your aim?"

"All right!" Harry pulled his arm away from Malfoy. "We'll go by Pomfrey's tent on the way out."

"No need. I can do it."

Harry was about to demand that Malfoy not touch him when he felt a soft, strong pressure tilt his head towards the ceiling. Harry could feel the parchment peeling away from the wound and the beginnings of a fresh stream of blood trickle down his face. Malfoy whispered a spell under his breath and the cool blood and the dull ache vanished almost as fast as they had come.

"Thanks." Harry muttered.

"No problem." Malfoy's gruff voice answered.

"Er, Malfoy?"

"Hmm?"

"You can let go of my face now."

"Oh, yes, right." Malfoy pulled his hand away and tucked the parchment and his wand into the pocket of his robe. "Shall we head off, then?"

"You make it sound like we're going to the races." Harry commented. It seemed like an amicable comment. The sort of thing that Hermione would approve of.

"Oh, but Potter," Malfoy's grin was feral, "we are."

Harry tried not to show how much Malfoy's comment had unnerved him as they took the stairs up and out of the underground society they both called home, but he seemed to be having a hard time of it. Malfoy was right. They were going to the races. In a metaphorical, mass-murdering, maniacal blood letting way.

"Snap out of it, Potter. Now is not the time to be daydreaming."

"I – "

"Potter, look," Malfoy said, rubbing a hand over the black stocking cap he was wearing that obscured all of his blonde hair from view. "I talked to Moody about you."

"What?" Harry spat.

"About your history on the battlefield."

"What?" Harry's voice didn't lose any of its venom.

"Everyone knows you did stuff in school not many people could and that now, during the war, you're ace on the field. But Moody said in the quiet times – the times when you think things have slowed down for a bit – your mind wanders. And that that's hurt the Order in the past."

Malfoy was staring him down. A sensation made all the more intense by the fact that the only part of Malfoy that wasn't covered in black was the grey and white of his eyes. His face was covered in black shoe polish, his hands covered in black, spandex gloves and his body shrouded in black cotton undergarments and a black silk robe.

"Potter?"

Harry didn't answer.

"I want us to be friends."

Harry started sputtering.

"Maybe not off the battlefield – but on," amended Malfoy. "This one is going to be huge, Potter. The biggest one so far. I'm just trying to tell you that even when you think it's slowed down – even when you think it's safe to turn around – it won't be. Never lower your guard. Never lower your wand. And never, ever lower your mental shields or the Dark Lord will know your location before you can blink. It won't be safe to think until your home in that messy hovel you've built for yourself. Trust me, yeah?"

"Trust you?" Harry tested the words out in his mouth. "Trust you?"

"Trust me."

Harry sized Malfoy up in those few moments. Sized him up more than he had ever sized anyone else. He ignored Hermione, Moody, Ron, Dumbledore and anyone who had ever spoken the name Malfoy besides himself. Did he trust this man? This man who he had hated at school. This man who had most likely killed, ravaged and tortured. Malfoy had probably made more orphans like Harry. He had probably stolen sons and daughters from loving parents like the Weasleys. All in the name of a monster masquerading as a man.

Did he trust him?

Oddly, yes.

"I trust you."

"You trust me?" Malfoy asked.

"I thought we had decided that." Harry said, feeling a little vindicated that he seemed to have momentarily gained the upper hand.

"Right, we have. You ready to go out there then?" Malfoy asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be." Harry answered.

"Then we go."

Malfoy pushed open the trapdoor that separated the underground from the outside and the pair scrambled over the ledge and onto the cool grass.

Harry inhaled deeply. It had been so long since he had been outside.

"It's a dark night." Malfoy commented.

"That's normally what happens at night – it gets dark."

"Shut it, Potter. I'm talking about the cloud cover." Malfoy muttered more to himself than to Harry. "Here."

"I can't see you."

"Follow my voice."

"Following your voice won't show me what you want me to see." Harry said.

"Lumos." The clearing lit up, revealing Malfoy standing directly in front of Harry. "Oh look, I found you."

"Shut it."

"I have the portkey."

Harry looked down at Malfoy's hand. In it was a long, cylindrical, black piece of rubber.

"Malfoy!" Harry gasped, "Is that?"

"Of course not." Malfoy said, making a pointed look towards his watch. "Grab hold now."

"I am not grabbing hold of that – that thing."

"Stop being such a prude. It would take too long to make another."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Harry fumed.

"What did I tell you about paying attention?"

"I – " Deep down Harry knew Malfoy was right. Bastard.

"You what?"

Harry didn't answer, but instead grabbed firmly onto – well – he wasn't going to even think it. He did not have time to think of how twisted Malfoy was, though, distracted as he was with a jolt at his navel and a sharp pain in his knees as he landed hard in a muddy patch of land.

"Quiet." Malfoy hissed against Harry's ear, his breath encasing the shell. "Hear that?"

Harry did. There were yells and shouts coming from behind a large mound of earth not too far out in the distance.

"Yes."

"Let's go, then." Malfoy said. A large burst of light illuminated the area enough so that Harry could see the blonde crawling forward, crouched low to the ground.

Harry grabbed the hem of his shirt.

"What are you doing?" Malfoy hissed.

"Shouldn't there be more of us?" Harry asked.

"There are. They left from another hub. We were the only ones who left from camp. Now – come on."

"Why?"

"Potter, now is not the time for questions." Malfoy snapped.

"Fine. What do we do if we get separated?"

"What do you mean?"

"Moody said we were guarding each other tonight. What happens if we lose sight of each other?" Harry asked.

"We won't." Malfoy stated matter-of-factly.

Somehow that was enough for Harry. He let Malfoy tug out of his grasp and take hold of his hand, pulling him all the way down onto his stomach.

"Crawl." Malfoy ordered. "And pay attention."

No more words passed between them as they made their way slowly across the half mud, half grass field that kept them from the battle. Every now and then Harry's palm would dig into a sharp rock embedded in the soil and he would let out a small hiss of pain that Malfoy would studiously ignore. Other times one of those lights in the distance would flash again and Harry would see Malfoy wipe the sweat from his brow, but keep crawling no matter how many times he flinched.

Finally, they reached the base of the swelling hill. Harry collapsed against the earth and felt Malfoy do the same.

"Okay?" Harry asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

The sky lit up as bright as it would have on a warm summer day and Harry lurched forward under the quake of the largest blast they had experienced upon arrival. Malfoy groped for his hand and upon initiating contact, squeezed tightly.

"Are you scared?" Harry asked.

"Of course." Malfoy replied, simply. "Aren't you?"

"Terrified." Harry said with a laugh devoid of all humor.

The ground shook again, knocking Harry even closer to Malfoy.

It was Harry this time that pulled them up and pushed them forward. They climbed up the hill, using roots and each other as stepping stones. When they reached the peak, as if under an unspoken contract, both boys peered cautiously over the edge to meet a sight Harry would not soon forget.

"Merlin." Harry heard Malfoy breathe next to him.

It was a bowl, Harry thought. Around the fighting wizards and magical folk was a three hundred and sixty degree raised border. There was no way out except to climb the walls. No way to escape.

Spells ricocheted off the sides of earth and did not stop until they found someone solid to hit. The screams of those taken down echoed in the hollow.

"We're sliding down." Malfoy said, gripping Harry's hand again. His voice shook.

"Okay."

Malfoy scooted closer to Harry and wrapped his arms around his slightly smaller frame.

"What are you doing?" Harry hissed.

"It'll be easier this way." Malfoy said, concentrating on entwining his legs thoroughly with Harry's. "Link your arms in with mine."

Harry did with a very large swallow.

"Okay," Malfoy said, easing their bodies over the rim of the hill. "Stay tucked in with me."

Malfoy's head was resting in the crook of his neck. Was that normal?

"I'm pushing off now."

Harry vaguely registered the words before he and Malfoy were speeding down the vertical patch of land. The wind howled in Harry's ears and stung at his eyes, forcing them closed. Harry grunted as his body was dragged over a loose twig sparking a deep pain in his thigh. Malfoy held on even tighter. Harry tucked his head into the soft material of Malfoy's cap. Malfoy groaned at something. Harry couldn't tell what. And then they were a heap on the ground.

Malfoy shoved away from Harry and was on his feet in seconds, yanking Harry up with him.

"DIFFINDO!"

The hooded figure that had been advancing on them fell, his neck severed.

"Totally just saved your arse," commented Malfoy. "REDUCTO!"

A blast of bodies plowed apart, making room for Harry and Malfoy to walk through.

"EXPELLIARMUS!" Harry called.

One down, about a million to go he thought to himself.

Malfoy dodged a red light ahead of him and tucked himself into a crowd of shrouded individuals. Harry followed.

"Ferula," Harry whispered to himself. A wooden beam appeared in his hand. He held it ready to strike at his side. The pack of individuals they had just entered seemed too quiet to be safe.

"Hello, Potter." A distinctly nasty voice spoke in his ear.

Harry spun and crashed the beam over the head of the owner of the voice.

"CRUCIO!" Harry heard somewhere from the pack. Was that Malfoy's voice?

Harry watched as the man he had hit fell to the ground, his face still shrouded.

"FLAGRATE!" Harry yelled, hoping Malfoy would recognize his voice. He drew an arrow in the air pointing towards the outside of the group. He would be damned if he stayed stuck in the midst of a bunch of what he was quite sure were Death Eaters much longer.

Harry brought the wooden beam down on several more heads as he pushed out of the circle. What did Malfoy think he was playing at?

Once Harry reached relative safety away from the group he dropped the beam on the ground.

"IMPEDIMENTA." The figure that had been running towards him slowed. "STUPEFY!"

"Not good, not good." Harry muttered to himself as he ducked a beam of yellow light. Where the hell was Malfoy?

"INCARCEROUS!" Harry heard from behind him. He whipped around to find Malfoy at his back, two tied death eaters at his feet. "Saved your arse – again." Malfoy said with a smirk.

"INCENDIO." The woman that had come up behind Draco burst into flames. "You were saying?" Harry asked.

Malfoy laughed.

"I thought you were scared?" Harry spoke loudly over the noise, pushing Malfoy down to avoid a ricocheting spell.

"I am." Malfoy said, pushing Harry even lower into the ground to avoid yet another burst of light. "This is how I cope."

"This is a suicide mission."

"What?" Malfoy yelled, another thunderous blast sounding from their left.

"THIS IS A SUICIDE MISSION!"

"I KNOW!"

Unfortunately for them the racket had quieted down for a few moments and Malfoy's yell had attracted attention.

"Shite," Malfoy cursed, rolling off of Harry and moving to a crouching position. "CRUCIO!"

"LANGLOCK!" Harry incanted. "REDUCTO! REDUCTO! REDUCTO!"

In the corner of his eye Harry saw Malfoy duck.

"LOCOMOTOR MORTIS!" Harry called, but no sound could be heard over the growing number of screams around him. His only indication that the spell had worked was his opponent crashing to the ground before him.

Someone had cast the Dark Mark. Harry felt his stomach roll as he spared a glance at what was now a green sky.

Another blast shook the field and Harry fell to his knees.

"What are you doing?" Malfoy yelled, pulling him to his feet and pushing him forward. "Pay attention! REDUCTO!" Malfoy directed his spell at the wall of earth several feet to their right. Rock and mud crashed down on the group of Death Eaters that had been backed against it by members of the order.

"I am." Harry growled, pulling away from Malfoy, conjuring another beam of wood and sending it crashing into the face of a Death Eater. The Death Eater blinked dumbly at him from where he lay. "Relashio," Harry added, sending fiery sparks at the man. "That one was for Remus."

"DUCK!"

Harry did.

He'd have to thank Malfoy for that one later.

As the battle raged on and on and the night grew colder and colder Harry realized that Voldemort would not appear. It was a trap. Malfoy seemed to have realized it as well.

"I can't believe we fucking fell for it." Malfoy spat, kicking the Death Eater he had just brought down in the stomach.

"SECTUSEMPRA!" Harry incanted at a charging Death Eater, which effectively removed him from the fight.

Malfoy's eyes looked shadowed when Harry met them again, but he passed it off for the stress of the battle.

They separated after that. Malfoy was always in Harry's eye and earshot, but they operated on their own.

As time passed Harry's spells grew less ferocious. He found himself incanting muffling curses and Jelly Legs Jinxes, but nothing that could permanently maim. Malfoy, on the other hand, could be heard yelling unforgivable after unforgivable after unforgivable.

"IMPEDIMENTA!"

"Potter, watch out!" Malfoy called over his shoulder, but it was already too late.

A warm body had already collided with Harry, sending him spiraling downwards, landing hard on his shoulder.

He let out a low hiss of pain, which was mixed with the high cackle of the, from the sound of the voice, woman above him.

"Hello Harry."

Harry froze.

"You recognize me, don't you Harry?" Of course he did.

Harry shut his eyes as he felt a cool wand tip dig into the side of his neck.

"POTTER," Malfoy's frantic voice called from somewhere nearby.

"If you beg for death, Harry, I might make it easier on you."

"Go to hell, Lestrange." Harry spat.

"That can be arranged," Harry heard Malfoy's slow drawl above him.

Lestrange's wand dug harder into his skin and she stiffened.

"Let him go, Lestrange. Let him go and I'll let you live."

Harry kept his eyes squeezed shut.

"Why?" Lestrange asked in an eerily calm voice.

"Let him go. Let him go and I'll let you live." Malfoy sounded like he was growling.

"Is it because you want to fuck him too? Fuck him like you like to fuck all those other little boys?"

"Let him go. Let him go and I'll let you live."

She made no movement to let go.

"CRUCIO!"

Lestrange curled up on herself, pressing her weight into Harry, but she made no noise.

Malfoy, at least Harry assumed it was Malfoy, pushed Lestrange off of Harry and off to the side.

Harry opened his eyes and looked into Malfoy's worried gaze. Lestrange was still twitching off to the side. Malfoy had not removed the curse and from the look on his face he was not planning to anytime soon.

"What did I tell you about paying attention?"

"I know, I know." Harry muttered, allowing Malfoy to put him on his feet.

"DIFFINDO!"

Harry fell to his knees. He sucked in his breath as he doubled over and held a hand to his left side. He removed his hand to see it completely coated in his own blood.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

"Potter?" Malfoy asked frantically, shaking his shoulders.

Harry grunted.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Malfoy said above Harry. Was that a spell? Malfoy's arms wrapped around Harry. "Portus."

The world around Harry went black.

- - - -

"Potter? Potter? Goddamnit Potter – wake up!"

"Gertoffme."

"Potter?"

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, blinking his eyes open.

"Thank Merlin."

It had to be Malfoy. There was no way the blonde hair floating above him could belong to anyone else.

"What happened?" Harry asked before he started coughing violently.

Malfoy supported his neck as Harry rolled onto his uninjured side.

"I portkeyed us to Hogwarts."

Harry stopped coughing and stilled.

"How?" Harry asked.

"I know the new pass code. Moody told it to me incase we had to get out of there, which we did. The headmaster's office opened up as soon as we got here. I think the castle knows what's going on."

"I'm sure it does." Harry said, leaning.

"I tried to mend you up as best I could, but I don't know much healing magic."

Harry focused on Malfoy then. He was holding his stocking cap in his hands, twisting it back and forth, chewing on his bottom lip. He looked more like a boy in that moment than he had on the first day of school. It unnerved him.

"I feel all right."

"Good." Malfoy said, looking down at the cap in his hands. "I figure at this point we have to figure out how to alert headquarters that we're here."

"But doesn't Moody know?" Harry asked.

Malfoy shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm not so sure what the castle would do if anyone else tried to get on the grounds, to be honest. I think we should rest a bit more and try to find a house in Hogsmeade to put you up."

"What about you?" Harry asked.

"Potter, no one is going to put me up. Look at who my father is. Look at what everyone thinks I am."

"Oh, right." Harry said, feeling a bit daft for not clueing in sooner. "Then we just stay here."

"Don't be an idiot. We can't stay here. You're injured."

Harry did not have a real answer to that.

"But let's just wait it out here a bit more before we try and make it to Hogsmeade."

Malfoy nodded.

"Hey, Malfoy – thanks."

Malfoy looked up from his cap, his eyes questioning.

"For getting me out of there," clarified Harry.

"I wasn't about to let you become another one of the Dark Lord's trophies," Malfoy said, dropping his eyes back down to the cap that was once again twisting in between his fingers. "Besides, you would have done it for me."

"Yeah," Harry muttered with a breathy laugh that was only partly due to humor, "another fucking trophy."

"Go to sleep, Potter."

Harry did.

And he dreamt about Malfoys, Dark Lords and shiny golden trophies that gleamed when the sun hit them just right.

When he woke again Malfoy was asleep.

Harry tried to slip back into slumber, but no matter how tight he pressed his eyelids together he stayed wide awake, strewn out on the dusty carpet of the Headmaster's old office with the nagging idea of trophies pressing at the back of his mind.

And then it clicked.

"Malfoy," Harry rasped, hitting the floor with his hand. The dull thump echoed across the room but Malfoy slept on. "Fucking hell, Malfoy!" Harry slapped the floor again. "Come on," he whimpered, "I can't yell any louder, come on."

The slender piece of wood resting gently in the palm of Malfoy's hand reminded Harry of his spare wand. It took some painful twisting and turning, but Harry was eventually able to retrieve it.

With a flick of Harry's wrist water came crashing down onto Malfoy's head.

Malfoy shrieked. Harry yelled.

"POTTER!" Malfoy bellowed, clutching a fist to his chest and panting heavily.

"Trophies, Malfoy, trophies." Harry wheezed, letting his wand roll out of his hand.

"Oh Merlin, have you gone into shock?"

"No."

"Well, you must have gone mad then," Malfoy muttered under his breath, rolling onto all fours and crawling slowly towards Harry, laying a hand on his forehead, "bloody dousing me to tell me trophies."

"Malfoy, what you said about trophies – "

"Potter, you don't have a temperature," Malfoy said, moving his hand off of Harry's forehead, "go back to sleep."

"It's a Horcrux."

"What?" Malfoy snapped.

"Riddle's trophy. It's a Horcrux."

"What?" Malfoy repeated, quieter this time.

"His award. Special services to the school." Harry stopped to cough. "Dumbledore told me about it," he ignored Malfoy's wince, "when they thought he had ended the Chamber of Secrets – they gave him a trophy. Dumbledore said Riddle collected trophies – there's one right here in the school. Draco, it's right here."

Malfoy stared at him for a very long time. "You called me Draco."

"I'll call you a lot of other things if you don't help me get to the third floor right now."

"No."

"What d'you mean, no?"

"Good lord, is your intelligence so limited that you don't understand the semantics of a two letter word?"

"Malfoy."

"Sorry, just dealing with the shock of it all." Malfoy said with a quiet sneer.

"Help me."

"You're not going from the towers to the third floor in your condition. That's at least four flights of stairs if they decide to stay put. More if you consider that it's a Friday and that half of the staircases switch locations on a Friday."

"Bollocks. We have to get it."

"You're right, we do. If you're – this is the last Horcrux, Merlin. It could all be over." Malfoy whispered, chewing on his bottom lip. "But you still cannot move." Malfoy said suddenly, his voice strong. "You're inured. I'll go down and get it myself. You just stay here."

Harry was about to protest but Malfoy silenced him with a look that could have frozen ice and clearly said, 'if you argue with me I will vivisect you.'

Neither Malfoy nor Harry said anything else. Malfoy stood, cast a quick drying charm and slipped through the mahogany doors and down the spiral staircase.

Harry stayed strewn across the carpet, twisted around the ends of a throw rug coughing and wheezing, hoping against all hope that he was right and cursing the Diffindo that had severed his side.

Malfoy was taking his sweet time, Harry inwardly fumed. How long did the twit need to walk halfway across the school and recover a cursed magical artifact? Certainly not as much time as he was taking, that was for sure.

Finally, finally Malfoy stumbled back through the door with a cobweb in his hair and a plague with a golden faceplate mounted on dark, expensive wood clutched in his hands.

He stared at Harry, stared at him long and hard and then he did something completely unexpected. Malfoy's face broke into a smile, a dazzling, genuine for real smile and he laughed. Laughed like Harry had never seen him laugh before and probably never would again. He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes sparkling madly and kept on laughing even when Harry flopped his arm onto the carpet and glared, clearly indicating that he wanted to hold the plague.

"This is amazing. I'm positive you were right. I picked it up and I just felt – I felt power, Harry. Raw, unbridled power. I – here." Malfoy stumbled forward, bent down and held the trophy out to Harry.

Harry grasped the cold weight in his hand and felt nothing.

"I don't feel power."

"Oh, well, I suppose it's probably because it's a one off deal." Malfoy answered distractedly, running his right hand down his left arm and biting down on his lower lip to stop from smiling.

Harry turned the plague over in his hand. On the back, engraved into the wood, was a small picture of a snake. Harry felt a smile grow on his lips.

"What?"

"Oh, this is definitely it. Look."

Malfoy took the plague delicately out of Harry's hold. When he looked at the back he started laughing again. Harry joined him until the pain in his side flared up forcing him to stop, but despite the sharp ache, Harry kept on smiling.

How could he not?

"You do realize that this means we have to get back to camp as soon as possible, don't you?" Malfoy asked, handing the plague back to Harry.

"Yeah."

"I figure we have about three hours to get you to Hogsmeade – "

"No."

"Potter, don't be ridiculous."

"Malfoy, I am not about to put a bunch of helpless townspeople at risk just because I have a cut!"

"That's rich."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are," Malfoy sighed, "and that's what scares me. Har – Potter, we cannot take you across the countryside and into Germany. We just cannot. Your injury is too severe. We have to take you into Hogsmeade."

"How did you find camp the first time?"

Malfoy settled himself all the way on the floor and blinked at Harry three times before closing his eyes. "The Dark Lord's reports revealed that he suspected the Order to be in Germany, but no matter how hard he looked he could never find headquarters. When I escaped the ranks Germany was the first place I went. I searched high and low for any sign of the Order. I stumbled on magical folks now and again and would track them, but for months I kept getting led to small villages and the sort. Eventually I stumbled upon my cousin." Malfoy opened his eyes and pinned Harry with his gaze. "I wouldn't have known it was Tonks if it hadn't been for her voice. She had changed her appearance at this restaurant, but I heard her voice and I remembered her from somewhere and I approached her and I showed her the papers I had and she believed my story. The next thing I knew I was at headquarters."

"Do you remember the way there?" Harry asked.

"Yes. For the most part." Malfoy said.

"Then you go there and you tell them to come back for me. I'll wait here with the trophy."

"That's ridiculous. You'll be left here with absolutely no supplies. And what if something happens to me on the way? No one will know you're here and you could very well die."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take." Harry said, sounding braver than he felt.

"You're positive you won't go into Hogsmeade?"

"Yes."

"Not even for my peace of mind?"

"Malfoy, when has your mind ever been peaceful."

"Fair point. You won't give in, will you?"

"No."

"This is really the only option we have, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I'll leave in the morning." Malfoy said, standing up and brushing off his trousers. "But I will not bloody well like it."

Harry laughed a little and let his eyelids droop halfway closed. He watched as Malfoy moved through Dumbledore's old chambers, poking through cabinets and drawers, occasionally tossing something onto the ground. Malfoy went through a door that Harry had never been through before and came back into the main office a few moments later clutching onto an armload of blankets and cushions.

Malfoy tossed his pile onto the floor in front of the fireplace only to turn around and bring back another pile from what Harry assumed was Dumbledore's sleeping quarters. Malfoy carried on the same way for at least half an hour, moving from room to room, dumping cloths and books and jars full of things Harry did not recognize onto the floor. Harry eventually surmised that Malfoy was building a nest of sorts. He had stacked a pile of books in front of the fireplace, lined jars and boxes next to what looked like a foe glass and had even found firewood somewhere that he stacked next to his pile of pillows.

"You shouldn't do that." Harry mumbled sleepily as Malfoy began building a fire in the grate. "People might see."

"I obscured the windows." Malfoy responded absentmindedly, ripping pages out of one of the books he had grabbed, stuffing them in between the cracks in the stack of wood.

"Makes sense," Harry said with a big yawn accompanying his statement.

Malfoy hummed gently to himself as he set a weak _Incendio_ at the wood. The dark room filled up with a warm orange glow and Harry finally let himself drift off.

When he awoke again he was surrounded by cushions. Harry cracked an eye open to find that he had been settled in the middle of Malfoy's nest, the fire was still blaring and the sun was out.

He clenched a fist and felt paper crumple between his fingers. Harry unfolded his hand and brought the paper to his face.

_Lemon drops in the jar. Fire charmed. Wand under the pillows. You know what in the bedroom. –M_

Despite the heat in the room Harry shivered. God his side hurt. He tried to wiggle his torso, but only earned himself a wince of pain and the uncomfortable feeling of the shirt that had dried to his body trying to rip away from his skin.

There was nothing to do. He reached for one of the books Malfoy had stacked up,

But found that it was, much to his dismay, about Goblin rebellions. There had been enough of that in Binn's classes. He chucked the book into the fire and tightened his stomach muscles, trying to get his stomach to stop growling. He thought about sucking on a lemon drop, but decided against it. The reminder of Dumbledore was much too strong.

He poked around a few more of the boxes that Malfoy had left in his reach. Cotton swabs. More lemon drops. Marbles. Matches – how did Malfoy know what those were? A knife.

Giving in to his boredom, Harry hit a few marbles together, lit matches and let them burn out and flipped through a few more, in his humble opinion, useless books. Nothing alleviated the tense silence.

Harry finally settled on watching the sun drift beyond the horizon, painting the sky blues and purples and grays.

He fell asleep and woke every few hours. Every time he woke he tried to maneuver his torso, but every time he failed miserably. He figured he was messing his side up a little more every time he tried, but he simply did not have the patience to lay still and heal.

How long did it take to get to Germany from Hogwarts? That was the one question that bounced through Harry's head as he sat watching new sun after new sun after new sun. A few days? A week? Two weeks? A month?

Malfoy had been gone for four days when it happened.

Harry stared out the window listlessly, tapping his fingers on the carpeted floor humming a tune he had heard on Mrs. Weasley's wireless one Christmas at the Burrow.

Harry's humming was drowned out by the floo - the floo that was activating right in front of him.

Before Harry could lunge for his wand he felt one pressed against the side of his neck.

"Who are you?" A gruff voice demanded.

Did he dare answer?

He grunted non-commitally.

"By order of the Minister of Magic I hereby demand you to reveal your identity."

The wand tip pressed further into Harry's neck. Harry winced. This time there was no Malfoy to save him.

The floo sounded again.

It was not Voldemort, but was the Ministry worse?

"This school is closed. Who are you? How did you get in?"

The pressure of the wand brought tears to Harry's eyes.

"Harry Potter." Harry answered softly.

"Harry Potter?" A voice to the far right sounded incredulous.

"It is." The voice that was holding the wand to his neck relieved his pressure. "I see the scar. Percy, he's injured. Set up an emergency portkey."

"Right, sir."

Harry thought about fighting against the Aurors. He did. He really did. When it came down to it, though, he was too worn out to do more than shift out of the immediate reach of the man standing guard over him.

The watchman was ugly, Harry decided. He had a spongy nose and fleshy lips. No one would want to kiss those. At least someone would want to kiss Harry if he made it out of his current debacle. He took solace in that small triumph.

"Should we move him in that condition?" Once it had been identified Harry had no trouble recognizing the fallen Weasley.

"No. Drug him."

Harry felt a pinch at the back of his neck. Didn't people get tired of poking him back there?

The world went hazy after that.

When Harry woke it was with the feeling that he had been asleep for a very long time. He had no trouble remembering anything that had happened. He was assuredly at the Ministry, lying on a cot in one of their holding rooms. Brilliant.

He was practically in the Minister's living room.

His side felt better, though. Thank Merlin for small miracles.

The room was stark, but not in a white sort of way. In more of a taupe sort of way. Stark taupe. What would Malfoy say?

Harry heard a door opened, but paid no attention to it. Stark taupe? Funny.

"You were pretty delirious when we brought you in, Mr. Potter."

Oh, they were having a woman interrogate him. A very sexy woman.

Long tan legs. Sunkissed blonde hair. Small nose. Tight lips. Black skirt. Low cut white blouse.

Harry could deal with that.

"Was I?" Harry asked.

She was so not getting the upper hand.

"We drugged you quite thoroughly to alleviate the pain. You may still be feeling some of the effects." Her voice was silky.

Harry liked silky.

"Are you still feeling the effects, Mr. Potter?"

Was he?

"No."

"Excellent, then we can proceed. I'm here to ask you a few basic questions. It's standard procedure for those we feel are at a high risk."

High risk for what?

She sat down not in one of the chairs at the small table, but at the foot of Harry's bed, crossing her ankles together and tucking her hair behind her ear.

Was asking a prisoner questions like that even legal?

"Name?"

"Harry James Potter."

"Age?"

"19."

"Occupation?"

"None."

"Surely you have to have an occupation?" She asked kindly.

"No, not really." Harry answered.

"Well, then what were you doing at Hogwarts if you weren't there for work?"

"Visiting."

"Visiting?" Her tone took on a sharp edge.

"I miss Dumbledore an awful lot, you know. He was my mentor." Harry pulled out the puppy eyes.

"But why were you injured?"

"I'm clumsy." Harry answered.

"Clumsy?" Her voice became strained.

"Horribly clumsy. Affected me terribly as a child."

"I'll accept that for now," she said, setting down the notepad she had been holding and folded her hands, "whatever it was it must have been traumatic."

Harry nodded.

"One last question, Mr. Potter?"

"Shoot."

"What was in the bedroom?" She asked. Her eyes looked hungry.

Hadn't she eaten?

"A bed." Harry answered simply.

"What else besides the bed?"

"Blankets and pillows." Harry said with a shrug. "I don't know. I never went in there."

"But someone did?" She probed.

"Sure. Dumbledore did."

"What about M? Did someone named M go into the bedroom?"

"Of course not. People don't have letters for names." Harry said with what he hoped was a heartwarming smile.

"Very well, Mr. Potter. I can tell you're trying to be difficult this afternoon. I'll come back tomorrow. Hopefully the effects from the medicine will wear off by then." She said curtly, demurely tucking her skirt beneath her and standing.

Her heels tapped noisily as she walked across the stark, taupe linoleum. Did she have no tact? Harry had a headache.

Harry later learned her name was Diane.

Diane came to visit him every day and every time she did she asked him the same few questions.

What had he been doing at Hogwarts? Why had he been injured? What was in the bedroom? Who was M?

Harry played dumb every single time she asked.

Diane stopped being nice around day five.

It was quiet the rest of the time, but it was not the sort of unbearable quiet that had plagued Harry during his wait at Hogwarts. Now there were too many unanswered questions and hypothetical scenarios playing themselves out in his mind to be bored.

Had Malfoy made it back to headquarters? Had the Order gone to Hogwarts yet? Had the Ministry stationed Aurors at Hogwarts? Was Malfoy in Ministry custody? Where was the Horcrux?

War was entirely too complicated.

Harry lost count of how long he had been at the Ministry when the answer to his questions were answered.

Alarm bells sounded and people ran. They left Harry locked in his tiny cell.

He felt that was entirely irresponsible.

"POTTER!"

The door flew off of it's hinges, Harry ducked and covered his head.

"Potter?"

"Malfoy?" Harry coughed on the dust particles in the room as he bent back into a standing position.

Malfoy took a few halting steps forward, extending his arm as if he wanted to touch Harry.

"We thought you were dead." Malfoy said quietly. His eyes were bright.

"No." Harry said, reaching a hand up to tousle his hair, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Not dead yet."

"Good. Because the Dark Lord is here."

"What?" Harry spluttered.

"You might want to go kill him now seeing as how all the Horcruxes are gone." Malfoy said with a smile. "Just a suggestion."

"Does he know?"

"No." Malfoy answered simply. "He's outside on the hill."

"Right. I'll go deal with that. Thanks."

Harry left Malfoy standing in the stark, taupe cell and made his way up to the main lobby of the Ministry. The centaur in the statue bowed to him. Harry tipped his head.

It was a cold day outside. The sort of day where it's sunny, but that makes no difference. It was cloudy. People were screaming and running around him. Every once and a while someone would stop to point and him and gape. Harry Potter was here! They would all be saved. Right?

Harry hoped so.

In hindsight Harry found the final battle, if one could call it that, laughable.

Harry stalked his way through hazes upon hazes of fog and dismembered bodies to the top of the hill where the Dark Lord stood in his entire splendor.

Tom yelled at his minions. Tom yelled at his victims. Tom yelled at nothing.

He spotted Harry and cackled, raised his wand and fired a spell that Harry ducked.

Harry killed him with one well placed Avada Kedavra.

There had been no talk between them. There had been no final words of malice. There had been no secret tricks to defeating the most feared wizard of the age.

Anyone could have done it, Harry thought.

They went back to the camp after that. Squads were sent out to wrangle in the remaining Death Eaters every day. The rest of the time was spent on reconstruction strategy.

Harry input as much as he could. Did he think the Ministry needed changes? Yes, of course he did.

Harry even started talking to Draco Malfoy. They discussed everything from the politics of the war, Death Eater strategy, cooking, literature, bloodlines, and even once, with blazing intensity, the final moments of Albus Dumbledore.

Harry wrote about their conversations. About learning to forgive and forget. Telling the story of cold roots, colder hearts, and how sometimes when you freeze you are actually quite warm. He titled it with the words i _Swinging for an Inch /i _, signed his name with swirling cursive letters, and added the second work to the first, under the cot.

That was how it went until the end. Mindless chatter, ferocious battles, sleepless nights and ink stained fingers. Until one day, when it all just stopped.

The final Death Eater had been rounded up in the fiercest battle since the end of the war.

It was all done.

Reports came in later that the camp Harry had been living in for what seemed to be a lifetime had been destroyed. Not wanting to face another charred home, Harry did not return, but rather sat with a grieving Molly Weasley under an old oak tree at the Burrow for a month before heading abroad.

He traveled everywhere from the shores of the Bahamas to the temples in India, the entire way jotting notes.

Harry's favorite city, by far, was Barcelona. He wrote letters to various people back home, providing them with ornate descriptions of cobbled streets and a city bright with culture handed down from generation to generation.

It was on a sweltering day that Harry stumbled into a hole-in-the-wall café tucked behind a cart of citrus fruits and street vendors. He indulged himself, feasting on grape leaves, olives, pitas, sardines, chickpeas, saffron, hummus and a fine red wine. The day grew lethargic not only in pace, but also in awareness, and Harry wandered the streets aimlessly, finally happening upon i _Las Ramblas /i _ – a street lined with artists and performers perfecting their crafts in front of appreciative onlookers. Joining the throngs, Harry meandered by a few painters, a sculptor, a man dressed in warm fabrics juggling wine skins in the air.

When he first approached the man with startling dark eyes and bronze hair, Harry had stilled. Something about the man's gaze on him made him feel hot and clammy. He swallowed hard, taking steps forward, drawn in by those eyes that never seemed to end.

"What are you making?" Harry asked.

"Your Spanish is good."

Harry nodded. His translation spells had always been above average.

The man beckoned Harry forward, turning the easel a little forward, and a little to the right, revealing a raw sketch of – Harry.

"I saw you over by the sculptor." He brought up dark hands stained with smudges of graphite to trail over the thick paper. "You caught my attention."

"Did I?" Harry asked, feigning calm.

A whisper. "Yes."

Harry slept with Sergio that night.

And he loved it. He loved the way that he knew Sergio's body, even though he had never seen it before. He loved the way Sergio pushed painful, hard and slow. He loved the heat. The passion. The raw sensuality he had never found with anyone else.

Afterwards Sergio pulled out sticky and wet, curled next to Harry and fell into a deep slumber. A slumber Harry envied. A man, he slept with a man. Wasn't that something for Binn's history books? At some point Sergio rolled so his body was half covering Harry's. Harry sunk into the warmth, nuzzled the dark hair that crowned the man's head and ran a hand down his arm. He was really quite gorgeous. Could a man be gorgeous? Or was he handsome?

Harry swallowed hard. There were so many things he did not know. Did he stay until the morning? Did he leave before Sergio woke up?

Harry hesitantly touched Sergio's face with a single finger. Okay, he was real. Not a dream. Definitely not a dream. A laugh bubbled in his chest, but he did not let it escape.

It was a bit like a dream, he decided. It was a dream that he had found passion with a simple stranger when he could not find it in those he loved most in the world. What was even more of a dream was that he had found someone willing to match his passion touch for touch, kiss for kiss, thrust for thrust. Why ruin that dream?

Harry slipped out from under Sergio, dressed and headed out into the night.


	2. Act One

**Scheherazade**

**ACT ONE**

**Summary: A tale of abuse, hidden relationships and reconciliation. When you've lost all inspiration, who will be the one to help you tell your story? A Draco/Harry Romance. Slash. Post-War. Includes HBP canon.**

**Disclaimer (applies to all chapters prior and future): All characters and situations based on the world of Harry Potter are the strict property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to anything that is not of my own invention. No copyright infringement is intended. **

**AN: I would also like to thank those few who took the time to review the first chapter. I really appreciate the constructive criticism...now, if only the legions of you who tagged yourselves for alerts would be so kind to leave me a smidget of something! It really does make my night. **

**---------**

_CHAPTER ONE_

_Set Some Years Later…_

_---_

** SCENE I: In The Name of Indifference**

Draco Malfoy had always been in love with the idea of being in love. So, if one was being completely fair, it was only honest to say he'd been in the throws of passion for his entire life.

The idea of love initially seemed simple to Draco. He knew the feeling he wanted to achieve and the sort of ardor he wanted to invoke. The only thing he needed to complete his ideal was a partner, which did not seem all that difficult. Both women and men flocked to his side quite regularly and he was content to entertain both. That, though, was the precise problem. Draco only ever entertained. He was never the one to be wooed.

Every one of Draco's relationships followed the same arc. A physical attraction would pull him to his conquest. An initial meeting would spark wining, dining and bedding respectively. Presents and play would abound for a few weeks and then, then Draco would get bored.

The person he thought could be the one for him, the one that he had spent abundant amounts of time and money on, would switch from being infallible and become a mere human. Hair that used to seem golden would fade to yellow. Eyes that had sparkled would dim. A wit that had seemed unconquerable would be outsmarted.

Two years of the same situation had left Draco disillusioned.

That was, however, until he met Bernice. Bernice who could dance on her toes, speak Italian and recite Shakespeare. A glorious girl who came up to Draco's chin and fit perfectly against his body. Someone who played with Draco, laughed with Draco and inspired Draco. The type of person he had almost given up on finding.

Of course, she had her flaws. She was an animal lover and had insisted that Draco buy a kitten to mark the day she moved into his flat. The kitten was a scruffy thing; a black and white monstrosity with a rapidly swelling stomach. At first Draco had panicked at the bulge, afraid that some brutal beast had knocked up his new companion. That was until he remembered that she was fixed. Now he just suspected that she had some sort of glandular disorder that made her prone to plumpness.

Bernice also liked to drink white wine. Draco despised the stuff, but Bernice, Bernice soaked it up like a sponge. She would come home after dancing at her studio all day and pour a glass, twirl it around, take a few sips and then approach Draco, wanting to kiss and cuddle and screw. For his part, Draco was all up for following along, but he oftentimes wished that his passions did not have to coincide with the taste of white wine on Bernice's tongue.

Despite her quirks, Draco had fallen into what he was almost positive was love with her. It was a feeling that only intensified in moments like the one that had just been presented to him.

Draco smiled at the handsome greeter who removed his overcoat for him and gazed happily across the restaurant to where Bernice was already seated with her back towards the entrance. He slipped the greeter a small fold of paper bills in thanks and walked quietly across the restaurant, stooping to kiss Bernice's neck in lieu of a hello.

"I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to wait all night for you to show," she beamed at Draco as he moved around the table, pulled out his seat and settled himself across from her.

"I didn't mean to keep you waiting. I got caught up reading the script one last time."

"Nervous for tomorrow?"

"A tad," Draco replied.

"You've worked hard. I'm sure you'll be fine. Now, read the menu. The server's waiting to take our order."

Draco looked over Bernice's shoulder and noticed that the server was indeed hovering in the background, obviously anxious to get their orders off.

"No need. I've been here enough times to know what's good," he replied, waving the server over.

As Draco ordered the duck and Bernice the chicken he could not help but analyze the woman sitting across from him. She was by far the most beautiful creature he had ever been with. Her skin was pale, her arms and nose lightly dusted with freckles and hair the color of rust. Draco's favorite part of Bernice was her eyes. They were ordinary hazel, blue and green, with nothing else special that distinguished them, but they were the type of eyes that told a story. Draco could look into Bernice's eyes and see how she had broken her arm in primary school, how her first love had broken her heart at sixteen and how she wished she had had the brains to become a muggle healer. He watched, captivated, as her fingers tucked a strand of hair that had fallen loose behind her ear.

She smiled at him then, cocked her head to the side, and said, "have I gotten something on my face?" She rubbed her nose self-consciously and a faint red tinged her cheeks.

"No," Draco assured her, "no, I was just admiring you."

"Oh."

She seemed quite pleased with his response.

"Is that a new dress? It's lovely," Draco complimented.

"No, it was my mothers."

Bernice smiled once more at the compliment and adjusted the laced collar of her black cocktail dress.

"You know how vintage is in vogue at the moment."

"Of course." Was it really? Draco looked down at his brand new suit and frowned. "Tell me about your day," Draco muttered as he fumbled with his cufflink…was it too shiny?

"It was, I don't know, just a normal day. My form was a bit off this morning, but come afternoon I was back to my usual self. I've also been thinking about taking up teaching down at Isabel's dance studio on Wednesday evenings."

Draco's head nodded along with the crescendo of Bernice's voice as he let his eyes roam off his suit and around the restaurant. An elderly couple sat in the far corner, canoodling, most likely celebrating some anniversary or another. Two men in business suits passed papers across the table to each other. Another pair of men leaned in close together, their faces hidden from view, and their ankles linked under the table. A middle-aged woman and a younger looking version of herself chatted easily in quiet tones.

"Of course rehearsal has been more intense than usual, especially for me since I have the lead and all, but I'm sure you know how that feels by now, right Draco?"

"Right. You get used to it. Don't you love the ambiance of this place?" It really was quite a nice establishment. Very mod. Or, at least, that's what the write up in the paper had said. It was not very vintage, though.

"It's all right, but like I was saying, it's so stressful. I mean, I have to tell a story through _dance_. I don't get to use any words. All I get are leaps and twirls."

"But you're good at leaping and twirling," Draco pointed out what to him seemed quite obvious.

"So? How am I going to know whether or not I'm getting my point across to the audience?" Bernice sounded frustrated with his lack of comprehension.

Draco tried not to smile at her distress. Bernice's nerves had obviously been eating at her for sometime now and his interest in her day had been the nudge she had needed to pour out her insecurities. Poor dear.

"Listen, Bernice, darling, what you're feeling is perfectly normal. No performer ever knows if they're getting their story across. It doesn't matter what your medium is. I never have any idea if anyone in the audience is connecting with my performance during a show and I _get_ to use words."

"But – "

"No. That's all I want to hear of it." Draco interrupted gently and leaned forward to rub a hand down Bernice's cheek. "You have the jitters and you're talking yourself into a tizzy. Just have faith in your abilities. They wouldn't have cast you as Clara if they didn't think you could handle it."

"You're awfully good at this whole comforting business, did you know that?"

"It's been mentioned before, yes," Draco purred, running his hand down Bernice's face once more before pulling away at the sight of the server returning with their supper.

Bernice's eyes turned coy as she cleared her handbag off the table and nodded politely at the server as he set down her plate. The server smiled back at her in a way that Draco felt was thoroughly inappropriate.

The conversation following the arrival of the food was much more pleasant in Draco's humble opinion. Bernice brought up the question of where the pair would spend the Christmas Hols. Draco had a disturbing feeling that his admittance of not yet having thought of plans might mean a weekend spent with Bernice's parents in upstate New York. If she brought up the idea he would have to subtly squash it. Draco did not do parents.

Other points of discussion had detailed the weather, the food, sex and the philosophy of parking meters and fortune cookies.

"Do you want dessert?" Bernice asked as a busboy cleared the table.

Before Draco could answer a crash across the restaurant sent him jumping in his seat. The sound of clattering china sounded next to him as the busboy fumbled with the dishes along with the muffled shrieks of some of the women in the room, Bernice included.

Draco itched to pull his wand out of his jacket pocket, but instead swiveled his head towards the source of the disturbance, not wanting to explain to his girlfriend why he had decided to brandish a piece of wood in the middle of a posh restaurant.

What Draco saw when he turned towards the noise made his supper turn over in his stomach. The source of the disturbance had come from the table that had previously held the two men with the linked ankles. Now, however, the sandy haired of the pair had his forehead resting in the palm of his right hand, while the other man clumsily re-arranged the fallen table centerpiece. Draco knew that messy jet black hair. He remembered those vivid green eyes centered below a jagged red scar. His nightmares from the war oftentimes recalled that husky voice that now was muttering apologies to the restaurant staff that had hurried over to help clear up.

"Oh my," Bernice breathed, putting a hand to her chest. "He must be embarrassed."

"Bernice, grab your bag, we need to leave." Draco demanded, raising a hand to call over their server.

"Draco? What's wrong?" She looked nervous, but pulled her bronze clutch off the table and onto her lap all the same.

"Not now Bernice," Draco snapped. "Check. Now," He barked as soon as the server made it to the table.

"Draco, what's gotten into you?" Bernice spoke quietly, but Draco noticed the undercurrent of tension in her tone.

He ignored it as the server returned.

"I'll explain it to you later." Draco did not look up as he signed the check off with a flourish.

"Draco – "

Draco leaned close to Bernice and talked quietly, "I need you to get up from the table and walk as unobtrusively as you can to the door. I know this doesn't make sense to you right now, but please wait until we get outside to be upset with me. Can you do that?"

She nodded and pushed her seat back.

"That's my girl."

The small comment seemed to settle her and she reached her arm out to Draco who linked it with his own. He steered them around the far walls of the room, behind potted plants and their fellow patrons. Once they reached the front door Draco shrugged his coat on hastily and turned to help Bernice into her own jacket.

The pair practically jogged out of the building once they were dressed for the elements. It still was not fast enough for Draco.

The October night was crisp and cool. As Draco hailed a cab he watched Bernice's hair whip in her face. Her eyes had taken on the lost puppy look she seemed to adopt whenever she felt uncomfortable. For some reason, seeing Bernice upset made Draco angry at her.

She made it quite clear that she in turn was viciously upset with the way Draco had acted back in the restaurant. When Draco opened the cab door for her she brushed past him, bumping her shoulder roughly against his as she lowered herself into the vehicle.

The ride home was tense. The elevator trip to their penthouse was even tenser.

"Are you ever going to talk to me?" Draco asked roughly the second they had entered their flat and shut the door.

"I'm taking a shower." Bernice's voice was distant and guarded as she set her clutch on the counter, her back to Draco the entire time.

Draco knew what that meant. It was the line she used whenever she did not want to be around him. She would lock herself in the customized marble bathroom, pour herself a steaming, bubbling bath and play crooning love ballads on the radio to drown him out while he tried to talk to her through the door.

Draco supposed it could be considered another one of her flaws.

"That won't solve anything. We're obviously both agitated right now and we just need – "

"Draco," she cut him off, "Sophie's out of food."

"What?"

"I said, Sophie's out of food."

"How is that in any way relevant to our current situation?"

"Draco, the way I see it, at least someone in this house should be able to finish a meal without getting pulled out of the _nicest_ restaurant in the entire city." Her eyes, those common hazel eyes, smoldered as she advanced further down the hall towards the bathroom. "And right now I love that cat more than I love you. So, if you ever want me to speak to you ever again for God's sake go out and buy some food for her. She doesn't deserve to starve just because you're being a prick."

It occurred to Draco during Bernice's tirade that he was more the victim than she in the whole situation. First, he had been made to listen to her complain. Second, he had seen Potter. And third, he was in trouble for reacting to seeing Potter. Where was the justice in all that?

"You are being so – so bloody _irrational."_

Bernice stopped in her progression down the hall, "Draco, do you even know what the word irrational means?"

"Of course I know what it means!"

"I'm seriously doubting that right now. Why don't you go look it up and then come back to me."

"Bernice, stop acting like this. Don't you want an explanation?" He really wanted her to jump on the explanation idea, because the fight had barely even started and he was already getting tired with it. She did not say anything. Instead she stood stock still staring him down. In an attempt to lighten the mood he quipped, "Can't we give the cat chicken tonight?"

"Of course, you probably know what rational means much better than I ever could," she continued on as if she had not even heard him "After all – out of the pair of us you're the one with the fancy English education. The one you won't ever even _tell _me anything about."

"Why are you – "

Her eyes were tearing now, "What is it Draco? Are you embarrassed by me or something? You do realize that this isn't the first time this has happened, don't you?"

"Bernice – "

"No, Draco, no. Do you know how it feels to be out with the man you love and all the sudden he spots something, or _someone, _that upsets him and he manhandles you out the door like a piece of meat? Are you cheating on me, is that it? Do you see her – or _him – _when we're out? Is that why we always have to leave?"

"Bernice, you don't understand."

"You're right! But tell me how I'm supposed to understand when you won't tell me anything about your past or where you slip off to every month or why the hell you always drag us out of public places?"

"Please – "

"No, I'm starting to really believe you're having an affair. You're having an affair, aren't you? Oh God, you are, aren't you? I can't believe I ever trusted you. How could you do this to me?"

"Bernice, you're being – "

"Don't you dare say irrational, Draco Malfoy. Do you understand me?"

"That wasn't what I was going to say," Draco said, holding up a hand and walking a few steps down the hall. "I promise that wasn't what I was going to say. I promise."

She sniffed, "then what were you going to say?"

"I was going to say that you're absolutely right." He hoped his voice sounded as honest as he thought it did.

"Draco?"

"Yes?"

"Just go get Sophie some food."

Draco watched as Bernice turned slowly and finished her walk down the hall and into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind her.

He felt bloody miserable. She did have a point, of course. There had been a few other old faces he had seen in the city that had prompted Draco to remove himself and Bernice from the premises, but most of the times that Draco had made them vacate surrounded feelings. Every once in a while the pair would be somewhere and something about the entire situation would unsettle Draco and after all of his youth he knew those feelings should rarely ever be left to sit and that evacuation was the safest route. This time, however, she deserved to know the truth and he had made a right hash of things.

An affair, though, she really thought he was having an affair. The thought bugged him. Draco was a lot of unpleasant things, sure, but a cheater was not among them. Was that really the way she saw him? If that was the way she saw him then he supposed he could partially forfeit control for a bit and fetch the cat some food.

Draco shivered once he re-entered the cold autumn air. He pulled his wool overcoat tighter around his body. He should just be letting the cat starve itself; it would serve her right. No, that would be cruel. He had given up being cruel, or at least he was _trying_ to give up being cruel. He was only human. If sometimes he succumbed to teensy urges detailing the squashing of a spider or yelling obscenities at his aging neighbors, well then, so be it.

He did not know where to buy cat food. That was normally Bernice's department. Besides, even if he did know where to go he was willing to bet a few golden galleons that the shops were not open this late in the evening.

Pausing, Draco shuffled into a darkened crevice between two sets of apartment buildings. Once he was sure no muggles were around, he apparated.

Draco wasted no time, upon arriving at his destination, with repeatedly ringing the bell to Pansy's apartment.

"What do you want?" Pansy muttered, answering the door a few moments later as she rubbed sleep from her eyes.

"Cat food?"

"Draco," Pansy sighed, "You are the saddest man I know."

"You'll never guess who I just saw." Draco blurted out, pushing his way into Pansy's apartment. He ignored her grumblings as she latched the door shut. When she had turned back around Draco looked at her expectantly.

"Who?" Pansy asked.

"Guess."

"No."

"Oh, you're no fun." Draco pouted, moving into the kitchen. "Do you have any Darjeeling?"

"No." Pansy yawned, following Draco who had already begun rifling through the kitchen. "Now who did you see?"

"Hmm?" Draco hummed, removing his head from the refrigerator that he was rifling through.

"Focus." Pansy snapped.

"Oh, yes," Draco said, removing a bottle of juice from the fridge. "I saw Potter."

"Potter?" Pansy laughed. "You saw Potter?"

Draco nodded.

"Who hexed who first?" Pansy asked with a look of glee in her eyes.

"No one hexed anyone, actually." Draco said as he poured out two glasses of juice. "He was at the same restaurant I took Bernice to. With another man. Did you know Potter was a fairy?"

"Draco, everybody knows Potter bats for the other team."

"What?"

"Everyone knows Potter's gay."

"I heard you the first time." Draco huffed. "How does everyone know?"

"He's rather a big deal around the world. When he shacks up with a man, or anyone for that matter, people pay attention." Pansy said lazily, smirking at Draco

"How do I not know this?"

"Well, if I recall correctly, you didn't even wait for the dust to settle after the war before you turned your back on Britain and pranced across the Channel. How could you have?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe from my so called friends," Draco said lightheartedly, his eyes betraying his true anger at being kept in the dark.

"Draco," Pansy said patiently, "when you left for the States you told us two things. First, under no circumstances were we to tell anyone where you were without prior permission. Second, you didn't want to hear about anything that had to do with your past without requesting to hear about it. Potter fancying blokes falls somewhere into that second category."

"Pansy, you know me well enough to tell when I'm being dramatic," Draco said slowly, as if talking to a small child. "When your best friend's former arch enemy starts buggering boys – you tell him."

"I don't even see why you care so much. I thought you'd made your peace with Potter." Pansy stated the knowledge calmly, leaning slowly against the counter top.

"I have," Draco said, "but you never know. I may change my mind one day. Blackmail is a powerful tool."

"It's not blackmail if it's already been published," Pansy reminded Draco fondly, moving to put her now empty glass into the sink. "Now, you have to leave."

"Excuse me?" Draco snapped superciliously. "I still need consoling. I got in a fight with Bernice, she's mad at me and I don't know what to do. I can't leave."

"Draco, it's late and I have to go to bed. I can't always solve your problems with Bernice for you."

"Pansy, I think she might leave me."

"Draco, if I know Bernice even the tiniest then she'll be sitting alone, waiting for you to come home. She'll feel bad about all that's happened and she'll want to talk it out. She's just that sort of person. Now take your cat food and go."

She pushed him out the door gently, promising that if in the morning he still could not fend for himself that he could come back and she would help. Feeling too lazy to Apparate Draco wandered down to the street corner and caught a taxi.

"Sam." Draco nodded at the doorman of his apartment building as he entered, receiving a grunt in return.

Draco barely paid any attention at all as he waited for the elevator to reach the lobby. Once the ding of the bell and the bright yellow light on the top of the entrance lit up signaling the elevator's arrival Draco wasted no time sidling into the metal contraption.

The trip to the top floor seemed to take longer than normal, but on that long trip Draco decided that Bernice deserved to know the truth. She really did. He would tell her all about it. Tonight. He would tell her tonight.

When Draco exited the elevator he wasted no time pushing his way into the sprawling entry way of the flat.

"Hello, Sophie," Draco murmured to the cat who was already rubbing against his leg, looking up at the canister he held in his hand longingly.

He let Sophie lead him through the sitting room and into the kitchen where, to Draco's mild surprise, Bernice stood, teary eyed, wringing her hands. Draco opened the canister wordlessly, set it on the floor and waited for Sophie to start before he met Bernice's eyes.

"Are you all right?" He asked quietly.

"I thought you wouldn't come back.

"I'm not cheating on you."

"I know," Bernice said, her voice small.

Draco sighed and walked forward, scooping Bernice into a bear hug, trying to communicate to her that it was all right to sound big.

"Bernice, love, I don't want you to ever think that I'm embarrassed by you. My past is just very confusing and I don't know if I can properly explain. I'll try to explain it to you, though, if you want to listen."

"I do."

"Come sit on the couch with me."

Bernice followed Draco to the couch in the sitting room. It was lavishly decorated like every other room in their flat was. Draco adored it. Bernice thought it looked tawdry.

Draco watched silently as Bernice curled under a throw blanket and rested her head on the side of the couch. Her eyes were completely fixated on Draco's.

"This is very, very confusing," Draco finally started.

Bernice nodded.

"I don't expect you to understand."

Bernice looked affronted.

"I'm not saying that you can't understand," Draco corrected himself, his voice growing softer to accompany the mood, "but I'm saying it might take a bit more faith than normal to understand."

"Okay," Bernice whispered.

"It might be best if you let me talk until the end and then ask questions later."

Bernice nodded and Draco took a steadying breath.

"Have you ever heard stories of people doing things that couldn't be explained by normal means?" Draco waited for a nod, which Bernice granted, before he continued. "I thought you would have. There's an explanation for those stories and there's really only one word that explains it. Magic, Bernice. It's magic."

"But – "

"I know you've been told your entire life that magic doesn't exist, but it does. It really does. And my family back in England was one of the purest lines of the magical community." He wasn't paying attention to her reactions. He was too busy trying to get his explanation out in a coherent manner.

"Draco – "

"No, Bernice. I'm not lying. I could even show you some magic. Would you like to see some?"

"No." Bernice's voice sounded small again.

"Bernice – "

"Draco, this is really weird. I don't like it."

"But you have to believe me," Draco pleaded, scooting forward and grasping Bernice's clammy hand in his warm one.

"Even if I did," she said carefully, slowly, "I don't want to be involved – it's wrong, Draco. It's wrong that you think that you can do magic."

"But I can – "

"Even if you can, it's not right. People don't do magic."

"But they do – "

"Draco, I'm going to go to bed now, all right? I want you to sleep out here tonight while I think." She was talking so quietly now that Draco could barely discern her words, but her body language said everything he needed to know.

"All right," Draco whispered, ashamed.

"I'm sorry, baby," Bernice said against his lips as she granted him a sliver of a kiss.

Draco watched as Bernice rose from the couch and walked quickly out of the room.

"I'm sorry too," he replied to the empty room.


	3. Act Two

**SCHEHERAZADE**

**ACT TWO**

**Cadence Claire**

**AN: Thank you to those who reviewed – I greatly appreciate it. Just a point of interest, I have always started writing another story **_**The Sorrows of Saint Valentine **_**that is an established H/D. So, If you're interested you should definitely go check that out (oh, and review.)**

** SCENE I: Giraffes in the Room**

Draco awoke to a note rested on the hardwood floor right in his line of sight. It was a note that said Bernice had gone to Isabel's flat in order to "think about life." No other explanation was given. No time of return. No way to contact. She was gone, but she was still there.

Draco felt a small twinge in his chest after reading it. Oh, what a note. It was so short yet it conveyed so many meanings. Did she think him crazy? Deranged? A liar? Cheat?

And the ultimate – would she come home?

Draco tried not to think of it as he fed Sophie chicken for breakfast. Bernice did not feed Sophie chicken. He did. And that hurt him. It hurt him that she would not hear him out. Hear about his struggles pain triumph whatever you wanted to call them. He listened to her. Why wouldn't she listen to him?

"Sophie, your other owner is a bitch."

The cat looked at him.

"I mean that too," Draco said, sitting down at the counter barstool and resting his head in a propped up hand.

That was how it went for at least two hours, Draco did not know the exact amount of time, so he estimated. Two sounded about right. One hour was too short of a time to dwell on what might have been a breakup and three hours was excessive. So whether or not he had sat there for five or more hours he told himself it was two.

And he talked to his cat. She listened to him.

"You're fat," Draco told Sophie. "We feed you too much."

Said cat was flopped on her back, rolling around and purring.

"And you're slutty. Rolling around and exposing your bits like that."

Sophie continued to roll.

"I'm talking to my cat." Draco purposefully thumped his head against the marble countertop.

Luckily, Pansy showed up at the end of his two hours with a canvas bag tugged under her arm and a smile on her face.

"Bernice left me," Draco muttered the second he opened the door to let her in.

Real surprise flashed over Pansy's face.

"But she's too dependent."

"I scared her with magic," Draco said.

"Oh," Pansy relaxed and glided into the hallway past Draco who was still leaning against the doorframe. "The same thing happened to Blaise. It'll be fine."

"Tell me what happened to Blaise," Draco said, shutting the door and following Pansy into the living room.

"Remember that Italian girl?"

"The muggle?"

"Precisely the one," Pansy answered, settling herself onto the couch and patting the spot next to her. Draco complied with her wishes and tucked himself next to his oldest friend, leaning his head on her shoulder. "When Blaise told her about magic they didn't talk for a few weeks. She needed to sort it all out in her head. It's a big shock, love. She'll be back."

"I don't love her anymore."

"You don't know what love is." Pansy said, pulling a book out of the canvas bag she had brought. "That's why I've brought you this."

"I don't want to read. I already have lines."

"That have been memorized for at least a month. This is something you'll want to read, trust me."

"I know what love is," Draco commented distantly.

"You know what the fairytale is. You don't know about real life, Draco. You never have."

"A book won't teach me that," Draco sneered and for a moment he looked like a schoolboy again.

"I think the person who wrote it might appeal to you. You both share a lot in common."

"I'm an individual."

"Okay, Draco." Pansy said, pulling another book out of her bag. She set them both on the coffee table and pried Draco's head off of her shoulder. "I'm leaving these for you. Give them a chance."

Draco watched Pansy stand up and iron out her skirt with her hands.

"Pansy, I don't want to read."

"Draco, you don't love Bernice. You never have and you never will."

Pansy did not wait for a reply, but rather left the apartment with a click of heels and a whiff of perfume.

Draco glared at the two black, leather-bound books on the glass coffee table. He was not going to read them.

"I should practice." Draco announced into the din, making him feel less alone.

With a plan of action set in mind Draco stalked across the mahogany floors to the far wall that was composed entirely of floor length windows covered with Roman blinds. His shaking subsided as he pulled the drapes open, exposing the sparkling city lights illuminating the darkness below. The city was rainy and gray. It was Draco.

"Yes, practice." He repeated to himself, snapping his fingers once more. At once music began to play out of the piano Bernice had insisted they purchase.

"Practice makes perfect."

He waved his hand over an ornately carved cabinet and a bottle of his favorite red wine began pouring itself into a crystal goblet.

"I just need to practice."

Another snap of his fingers and a stack of paper along with his filled wine glass flew into his outstretched arms. He turned the stack of paper to one of the middle pages.

He sighed as he skimmed his lines. "And what do you want?" Draco asked with feigned impatience as he glared at Sophie who had seated herself in the entrance to the kitchen as she watched him intently.

"Oh, right – food." Draco snapped, pointing his finger at the fridge, which was just barely visible from where he was standing, directing a container from it until he was sure it was pouring itself over Sophie's dish in the other room. The cat in question blinked once at Draco and waddled slowly back into the kitchen.

Draco gazed discontentedly at his script once more before propping it in midair, wetting his pointer finger with his tongue, and flipping through the pages until he found a suitable page to begin on. He scanned his character's first few lines, wrinkling his brow and scowling the entire time he did so. "Is this bloke on narcotics?" Draco asked Sophie, who had appeared back in the kitchen doorway.

He was answered with a contented purr.

"Who am I to talk when here I am blubbering to a cat?"

Draco turned the next few pages of the script, "I don't think I even have a monologue in all of this." A few more turned pages, "I'm going loony. Absolutely barking mad." He glanced over at Sophie, "Don't give me that look." Sophie continued to gaze at him steadily. "I swear you're part kneazle or something."

Sophie spared Draco one more glance before walking down the hall, her tail swishing in the air. Draco watched her go, looked back at his script and pushed it to the floor. "Rubbish," he muttered to himself before stalking into the kitchen.

He yanked open the door of the refrigerator, which attracted Sophie back to the scene. She sat at his feet as he rifled through the contents of said fridge.

"I don't know what's wrong with me." Draco said anxiously. "This is a good role and I need to practice." He spun around to face his cat, a head of lettuce in his hand. "Sophie, this could be my big break." Sophie blinked. "My big _break_ and here I am talking to you!"

Draco threw the lettuce into the sink where it began to wash itself and turned back to the fridge. "It's got to be Potter." Draco grumbled to himself. "He came and put stupid ideas into my head." He stood back up with a handful of tomatoes. "Showing up in a restaurant like that. Then Bernice," He began cutting the tomatoes furiously, "going and making a scene. Stupid Potter making me feel _something_ about the whole bleeding situation. Making me leave that damned restaurant." Draco threw the chopped tomatoes into the air and a metal bowl flew under quickly to catch them. He stomped back over to the fridge, grabbed a handful of carrots, standing up too fast and hitting his head. "BOLLOCKS!" Draco shouted, throwing the carrots on the floor. "I said don't look at me like that." He hissed at Sophie who was still watching him steadily.

He was going bonkers and the more he dwelled upon that disturbing fact the more his brain circled back to Potter telling him in that soppy voice of his all about love and morals in wartimes. "But then again Potter always was a meddling twit."

He was being stupid, that was what Draco decided as he bent down to pick up the dropped carrots. He had never considered Potter's misguided ramblings for more than they were in the past. So why now? There was no reason.

"Sod it." Draco muttered to himself, waving his arms in the air as he exited the kitchen, setting the uneaten food to putting itself away.

Half an hour later Draco lay in bed, Sophie curled up on the top of his head. She was purring. He wasn't proud to admit that his entire day had consisted of unfinished tasks and deranged musings. Maybe he just wouldn't mention any of it to Pansy, then he could forget all about it. He was too young to be going insane. His psychiatrist had told him, jokingly but Draco suspected with a bit of truth, that insanity didn't hit until thirty. So, if his maths were correct he had a good six years to go. But, then again, he had always been advanced when it came to things. He had started walking at eight months, read most of his father's private library by the time he was age eleven and mastered the entire Hogwart's potions curriculum by the time he was in his fifth year. So, it was only reasonable to assume that he was advanced in insanity as well.

Draco's mind began to slow as he watched a beam of light dance in the corner like Bernice used to. He would come home late after a day of auditions and observe quietly from the door as she twirled and leapt. He had been a spectator to something whole, something pure, and something definite. There had never been any gray lines where Bernice was concerned. And yet, Draco couldn't help but wonder if he may have caused some to appear.

Seep was not an easy affair. Draco felt old vibrations of memories he had hidden in the dusty recesses of his mind. Memories, thoughts and fears that he had spent every moment of awareness trying to forget after the end of it all.

Draco sat up in bed, breathing heavily and feeling his way blindly about the bed, as if he was looking for someone. But no one was there. Calming slightly, although still terribly unnerved, Draco wrapped his comforter around his trembling arms and crawled out of bed to his dressing cabinet. It took him ten minutes to remove his old school trunk and unlock it, and once the tasks had been accomplished it took him twenty to gather the nerve to open the old oak box.

There weren't many things left in his trunk. Draco had never been the sentimental sort. He had never felt a need to save his old essays and rune charts in order to hold fond memories when the entire time the assignments were being completed he had cursed their existence. But what the trunk did hold were the things that had sculpted his formative years. The objects that had really mattered.

Draco ghosted a finger-tip over his old Slytherin scarf. He smiled fondly as he recalled the day Professor Snape had handed him the cashmere cloth. Pride had filled him that day, and Draco had wrapped the scarf about his neck tightly, not taking it off for a week, even in sleep. There were some things in the trunk, though, that did not hold kind memories. In fact, the vast majority of the items held attached to them memories darker than night. An old diary with a hole pierced through the middle, something his father had thrown at him in his second year. There was the letter his mother had sent him in fifth year, informing him his father was to be sent to Azkaban. A scrap of paper with a spell used in his sixth year, a key to a vanishing cabinet, spare coins left over from bartering his way throughout Europe, pages of paper with battle plans that had once been held on to for dear life.

As each article extracted became more recent the tempest raging inside of Draco fuelled its fire. It was an interactive timeline of sorts. Finally, it came down to two.

One. A death eater's mask.

Two. An Order of the Phoenix ring.

One. Two.

This was what his life had all come down to.

In his left hand Draco lifted up the mask, while simultaneously grasping the ring in his right. He stared at them both for a time he wasn't sure the amount of and for the first time in years Draco Malfoy felt shame.

Fate was not keen to leave Draco alone to his musings, though, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted a piece of bloody parchment. A piece of bloody parchment that he had picked off Harry Potter and, for some odd reason, pocketed. Draco placed his other treasures back in the trunk, taking up the parchment and turning it over in his hands a few times. He had never looked at it before, always thinking it was blank, but now he noticed that there was cramped, sprawling handwriting at the bottom of the page.

It was smudged and faint, but still discernable.

_If one dwells on it for any long period of time it is easy to come to the conclusion that humans ask too much of the heart. When observed in proportion to the rest of ones self the heart is tiny – miniscule. Yet, with this knowledge in hand we still demand that it supply us with not only life, but love. Maybe we can only have one or the other. A sort of prerogative. Do you, kind sir, choose life or love? For it is reasonable to assume that the heart only has time to accommodate one._

So Potter had posed as a poet during the war. This came as a surprise to Draco. He turned the parchment over again. Nothing was on the other side.

Draco read the lines one more time, snorted, and then chucked the parchment back in the trunk and sealed it tightly. He was starting to feel mildly ridiculous what with all his raving and erratic behavior. Worst of all, he was still feeling that mix of shame and regret that tinged his thoughts whenever he dwelled on his teenage years.

The sun had now set in the city and Draco, much to his dismay, found that the hope of sleep was elusive at best. He padded back out to the living room and stood for a few minutes. He did not quite know what he wanted to be doing. That was when his eyes landed on the books Pansy had brought him.

She would not. Draco scoffed to himself. Oh, she would.

Tentatively, Draco approached the coffee table that held the leather volumes. He poked one with his wand and when it did not jump or morph into something nasty he flipped the cover open.

_Closets to Narnia_

_H. J. Potter_

_The War Years_

So Potter had written novels. Draco's eyes caught on an inscription at the bottom of the page.

_Recovered and restored by the British Society of Magical History._

Draco felt a smirk grow on his lips. So Potter had written novels that had been claimed as historical literature by some bloody society or another and that, most likely, had been published without his consent. Draco would know. The same bastards seized some of the assets from Malfoy Manor in the name of preserving wizarding lore.

In his mind's eye, Draco could just picture Potter's face when he found out his most private musings were being put into mass print. Merlin, this was the same man who was embarrassed by the small facts he gave away in an interview. He would have been livid.

Draco took a small comfort in this. It was not that he held Potter any ill will, no, not at all. They had, as Pansy so eloquently stated, made their peace. This did not stop Draco from feeling small surges of victory whenever he heard of something or another spoiling Potter's plans like he had never been able to do in school. It was not born out of animosity, but merely from that fierce competitive edge the two shared that never seemed to die down whether or not they were friends or enemies.

Draco sat and pulled the work toward him. He flipped to a random page.

_When you spend your childhood in a cupboard it's odd the way things that seem so normal to others, become so different for you._

Draco frowned. Another page.

_When he left that last summer, and we didn't know where he had gone, there was this side of me that would have died to have him back. That side of me was dangerous._

Draco's frown deepened. Another page.

_We spent the day doing things I had only ever heard stories about._

Draco felt his frown lift a titch. He flipped to page one and started from the beginning.

** SCENE II: The Certainty of Luck**

Draco did not sleep again after his midnight ravings, but he had reflected for hours with a glass of wine in hand, while standing on the balcony. The gauzy white drapes on the antique French doors had fluttered wickedly in the wind and Draco's hair had whipped in his face as he thought of nothing and everything in between. It had been something of a spiritual experience, or so Draco thought.

Regardless of what had occurred to cause Draco's feelings to alter so drastically in such a short period of time something fundamental had changed in him. And that something fundamental was due to Potter. It was not the sort of thing that could be named or described for any attempt to do so would be an insult. This sort of thing, at least for Draco, was unprecedented.

Draco made his way through his morning routine with a calm exterior that in no way matched the passionate feelings that were welling up inside him. That novel had been written about him, he knew it. The thought thrilled him, excited him and, he was slightly shocked to realize, aroused him. It was as if someone had filled him with a bubbling beverage, capped his mouth and shook him around the room. He felt as if his chest would explode at the slightest touch.

Sophie was fed, breakfast consumed and notes stacked – all with a level of perfection that Draco had never attained before. He left his apartment, a smile taking up a permanent residence sign on his face

In all truthfulness Draco was beyond surprised at his own behavior. He would be starting a new acting project in less than an hour's time, but he could not be bothered by the fright that had so plagued him the night before. In a fit of lunacy, Draco had stopped an old man feeding a bird a bit of his morning meal, wishing to say something profound, but instead only nodding a greeting.

The shoes he was walking in did not feel like his own. Where was the callous man that he had so despised yet cherished only the night before? Was this new feeling something of any permanence?

Draco could not decide if his new found attitude was hang over induced nor could he affirm what it even was he was feeling. All he knew was that he was excited about something, and whatever that excitement was it entailed a renovation of mind and soul. Peculiar, as it all was.

As if on cue, Draco stopped his walking abruptly as he came face to face with a gothic style theatre, recently renovated of course, construction workers littering the face of the building like Christmas lights and a twitchy looking young man with a clipboard waving him to move closer under a scaffold.

"Mr. Malfoy? Is that you, Mr. Malfoy?" The man called.

"Yes." Draco answered, projecting his voice with confidence and authority.

"I memorized you from your picture."

"Ah." Draco nodded, although he had no idea about the picture that the man spoke of.

"Name's Auggie Campbell, really pleased to meet you, sir." Auggie said as he extended a hand, which Draco took. "I saw your audition. I taped it for the boss. He was really impressed with you. I think you've got loads of natural talent."

"That's very gracious of you."

"Are you from England?"

"Yes."

"That's so cool. My sister married a guy from England, too. London, to be exact. What part of the country are you from?" Auggie asked excitedly as he led Draco under a ladder, around a bucket of paint and into the lobby of the theatre.

"You wouldn't know it. It's a very small region." Draco mumbled, as he turned slowly to examine his first sighting of the interior of his workplace. The floors were a dark stained oak, wearing to the point where the original grain of the wood was beginning to show. The only light in the room was from flood lamps brought in by workmen who seemed to be installing intricate moldings into the ceiling. "I was under the impression that construction would be finished by the time rehearsals were to begin."

"Oh, they were." Auggie babbled, taking two steps at a time on one set of the double winding staircases. "Things just got side-tracked. I don't mind, though, it just makes things more interesting."

"Hmm." Draco hummed to himself. He silently agreed.

"It's just so exciting, don't you think?" Auggie looked back at Draco who promptly nodded, although he wasn't paying much attention. "This theatre has so much history. It's unbelievable that they're finally repairing it. Just think of all the shows that were held here, all the audience members who watched stories come to life and all the talent," Auggie paused, smiled back at Draco before throwing the heavy double doors wide open, "that performed on that stage." He finished with a whisper.

"AUGGIE, DAMMIT!" A deep voice boomed. Auggie shrank into himself. "YOU THREW THAT GOD FORSAKEN DOOR ONTO MY FOOT!"

"Sir, sorry." Auggie squeaked.

A heavy set man with a pained expression and a thick batch of grey hair atop his head came into focus. His face softened when his eyes alighted on Draco.

"Ah, and here's our star."

"Mr. Perret." Draco nodded, holding out a hand which was taken and grasped firmly.

"Auggie helped you alright, did he?"

"Yes sir, just fine."

"Good, good." Mr. Perret pulled his hand back, a small grin resting on his lips. "AUGGIE!" He shouted.

"Sir, yes." Auggie jumped.

"Go wait for everyone else to arrive."

Auggie nodded and hurried back down the stairs.

"So, what do you think?"

"It's lovely sir."

"Yes, it is. I was just telling the reporter that will be following the entire process about you. He seemed very interested."

"Really?"

"He's here somewhere. You should meet." Mr. Perret announced, looking around for the reporter. "I'll be wanting him to do an expose on my star."

"Oh."

"POTTER!" Mr. Perret shouted suddenly.

Draco's mouth went dry as, out of the dark recesses of the theater a one Harry Potter stepped forward/

Draco maneuvered his attention to the domed ceiling, silently asking anyone who would listen why the fates seemed to be pitted against him.


	4. Act Three

**Scheherazade**

**By Cadence Claire**

**Act Three**

**Scene One: Sybil Vane**

Potter was fit. So fit. And the fact that Potter was as fit as he was made Draco very aware of one prominent thing. Potter attracted him. Harry fucking Potter attracted him in a way that was not supposed to be allowed.

Because a Malfoy never was attracted to a Potter.

Apparently Draco missed that particular memo somewhere. Of course this fleeting, delusional, maddeningly handsome visage of Potter sitting in the back of the theatre could be nothing more than a mirage. Draco was currently positioned on the stage, standing with a girl who had introduced herself as Meredith (not to be shortened to Mer), with the stage lights bearing down on him. All of these things had probably caused his vision to go spotty.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you paying attention?"

"Yes," said Draco.

Mr. Perret was a bossy old codger.

"Tell me how you see the relationship between Dorian and Sybil, then."

"Now?"

"Yes, now. Are you daft, man? Say it loud enough for everyone to hear. The whole cast needs to understand your motivation or they won't be able to understand their own."

"All right then," said Draco, "I think that Dorian does actually love Sybil Vane."

"Interesting," said Mr. Perret, moving to stand next to Draco. "You do realize that common critics are not as inclined to believe your favorable impression of our Mr. Gray."

"I do realize, sir," said Draco.

"Then why? Why do you believe something so far removed from the norm?"

Draco was silent. He could see Meredith bouncing on her shiny red heels. She had long chestnut colored hair with matching colored eyes and a matching colored dress. It was all too symmetrical for Draco.

"I don't know, sir, but I am positive when I say he does. Love her, that is," said Draco.

"You don't know why and yet you are positive?"

"Quite," confirmed Draco.

Fidgeting fabulously cut Potter was shifting in his seat in the corner of his eye.

"Sometimes one just knows these things," he finished with some finality.

"Acceptable," said Perret.

"Meredith, do you think Draco's Dorian indeed loves your character?"

"I think that he thinks he does," replied Meredith.

Draco watched her as she stopped bouncing on her heels so much. Her forehead was prematurely wrinkled, he noted. Her deep red wine lips matched her heels. Again with the symmetry. Symmetry aside, Draco thought she was a delectable sort of woman. The sort of woman who you could dress up or down and prance about town, only to have her step on your foot and do something cutely defiant like tell you that she did not like to be dressed up or down but rather somewhere in the middle and she would appreciate it if you would please stop telling her how to dress. That sort of woman.

"And you, Monty?"

"My opinion on the same matter," said Monty, the man who would play the role of the indulgent Lord Henry, "is that Dorian is the only one who will ever know the answer to that question, because he is the one who is supposedly so entranced, and that we should therefore accept Draco's reasoning and move on with it."

Draco tipped his head to Monty, the thirty something peppered haired man who was swiftly growing on him.

"Before you ask me, I agree," Roman said from his seat in the stands.

Perret chuckled.

Draco liked this cast. Perret had introduced him to them after his brief encounter with the oh so (why was he so suddenly) fuckable Potter. Meredith, his fatally doomed love interest. Monty, his older advisor cum sugar daddy. Roman, his tortured painter friend.

It was a brilliantly screwed up play and Draco had the not so slight feeling that they were the perfect brilliantly screwed up people to play the parts.

"Page thirty. Act it out. Now," said Perret as he climbed down off the stage and settled himself into the first row of seats.

Draco skimmed his book, as did the others, and as they found that Draco was the only actor for the scene, followed Perret down to the seats.

"Whenever you're ready, Draco," Perret called softly.

Draco tossed his book to the side.

"We don't have props yet, improvise," Perret directed.

"Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life," Draco intoned calmly, gently and reverently. He took a small step back. "Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl." He paused, bit his bottom lip and turned his head to the side. "Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?" He whispered the word dead. Shut his eyes tightly, then opened them and stalked forward –

"STOP," shouted Perret.

Draco stumbled backwards a few steps.

"Draco, are we producing _Romeo and Juliet?_"

Draco stared at Perret with ice in his eyes.

"Answer me."

Nothing.

"What are we producing?"

"We are producing _The Picture of Dorian Gray."_

"Then why, pray tell, are you acting the part as if you are Romeo and you have just lost your Juliet?"

"I wasn't aware that I was doing that, _sir,_" said Draco.

"Draco, I want you to take that script home, pop out the original novel and think long and hard about your character and his role in the larger picture," said Perret. "Clear?"

"Crystal," said Draco.

"We'll meet back here tomorrow then. Same place, same time," announced Perret to the room at large. "We only have two months to bring this theatre back to its old glory and if you succeed we will be offering company positions. You know this. You all know this. I expect to see results."

Feeling rather removed from himself, Draco watched as Meredith approached him. She climbed up on the stage, lifting the hem of her dress a titch as she did so. Yes, she was definitely that sort of woman.

"The rest of us are going out to grab a bite. You should come," she said.

"Where?"

"Anywhere," she replied, "we haven't decided yet."

Draco did not feel especially inclined to go dine with his peers that had seen him practically castrated by their manager.

"Come on, Draco, get your head out of your balls and stop feeling sorry for yourself," Roman said from the base of the stage, "Perret's going to go after us each before this thing is over. You were just lucky number one."

Well, when he put it that way…

"I'll go," Draco said.

"Oy, Potter!"

Potter, who had been packing up his notebooks, looked up.

"You're coming to dinner with us," Roman shouted.

Potter nodded.

"And Auggie!"

Roman directed his attention to the awkward young man who was hovering near the door.

"You're coming too."

"I don't remember anyone appointing you to be the social director," said Monty.

"Shut it. We should bond if we're going to work together," Roman said, cuffing Monty in the arm.

"Bond," Draco mouthed, "Bond?"

He caught Potter aim one of those split sideways grins at him.

Draco Malfoy could not believe it. Could not. Would not. Had to believe that he was going to dine with Harry bleeding Potter. In the muggle United States. As muggles. With muggles.

"Potter, you said you lived around here, know anywhere good?"

"Only for you, Roman," Potter answered.

"He's a nice man," said Meredith. It took Draco a moment to realize she was addressing him.

"Who?"

"Harry Potter. I got here early. Wanted to make a good first impression and all. He was here too. We sat and talked for a bit. I get the feeling he's one of those genuine sorts of people you rarely find in the city anymore," she said, "but then of course I've always been a cynic."

"I would have never guessed," Draco commented for the sole purpose of having something to say, "you seem so jovial."

"Hardly," she replied, "we should hurry, they're already out the door."

As Draco met Meredith's quick gait stride for stride he found himself, in an odd sort of way, reconciling himself to his current situation. What was the point of having a spiritual epiphany if he didn't live it out? And besides, Potter was so very beautiful and Draco himself was so very single all of the sudden.

Draco quicked a glance at Meredith. An odd sort of trusting feeling drew him to her. She said Potter was a decent sort, a good sort, a sort that Draco had been looking for but never found.

It was in that moment, through a combination of self-revelation and new acquaintances, that Draco decided to make Harry Potter his new conquest. As formidable a task as it was.

Roman called Meredith forward and Potter dropped back.

"Hey, Draco," he muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Bit of a surprise, eh?"

"Seeing you?"

"Well, yeah," Potter shrugged.

"I suppose," Draco said. "Mind if I smoke?"

Potter shrugged again.

Draco pulled out a cigarette and, making sure the rest of their party was still focused ahead, cast a wandless incendio at the tip.

"Those things will kill you," Potter commented.

"I'm aware," said Draco.

Neither of them spoke.

"Why did you come back here?" Draco finally asked.

"Well, I thought it only proper that we acknowledge our history. I mean, I certainly wasn't expecting to see you here and I know we made peace during the war and everything but I wanted to tell you that I don't have hard feelings and I haven't for some time and I hope –"

"You're rambling," said Draco through a smile and a puff of hazy black smoke.

"Sorry," Potter said, "I guess, well, I wanted to tell you that, during it all, I appreciated your friendship. More than you probably realized."

Draco raised an eyebrow at this unexpected bit of news.

"It was nice having someone I could talk to who I didn't feel was blaming me or holding me to some sort of standard. You were mean, but not like you were before. You told the truth and even if it was blunt you told it to me instead of hiding things from me and protecting me. I just, I guess what I'm trying to say is that after I left, I missed that. I missed having someone like you in my life."

Potter was looking at his feet and his cheeks were flushing with the most adorable shade of red. If Draco did not know better, he would have sworn Potter was a virgin.

"I read your books," Draco said.

"You did?" Potter sounded surprised and his cheeks reddened even more.

"Yes, Pansy Parkinson, remember her?"

Potter nodded.

"She's a dear friend and thought I should read them. So I did. They were quite philosophical. I would have never guessed you to be the sort," Draco said.

"I hate them," Potter whispered. "I wish I had never written them."

"Why?"

"Because they remind me of what I used to have."

"Old world? Old crowd?" Draco tossed the rest of his cigarette onto the concrete and snubbed it with his shoe.

"No. Something different."

"I assume the vagueness of your answer implies that this 'something different' is a something you don't want to enlighten me with?"

"It's not something I particularly want to share with anybody," Potter said.

"This the place, Potter?" Roman yelled, turning around with open arms and a smile.

"This is the one," said Potter, walking a bit faster and leaving Draco behind.

Potter had led them to a quiet little Italian eatery. It was cramped and cozy. Draco could not help but muse that it was so perfectly Potter.

From Draco's seat across from Potter, under the flickering overhead lights in the otherwise dark room, he began to realize that, although fit, Potter was looking worn and drawn.

After finishing his order, Draco watched Potter order his predictable Fettuccini.

Roman was firing question after question at Potter. Tell me about your life? How did you get into writing? Written anything we might of read? Draco listened with half an ear as Potter rambled off made up answers that Draco was sure sounded weak even to his ears.

As Draco listened to Harry ramble on he could not help but feel saddened. This was Harry Potter in front of him, the wizarding hero that mere simpletons tripped over each other to praise. But, he was not the same as Draco would have expected him to be after the years they had spent apart. He had thought that if he ever graced Potter's presence again that he would be confronted by someone healed and happy. This version of Harry Potter looked anything but. His skin had a washed out look, dark circles rimmed his eyes and even though his tone was light and breezy Draco detected a hint of wear behind it.

Instantly Draco was transported to a memory from his fourth year. He had been so proud of his father before the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. He had been privileged to know that something monumental was going to happen that night, not what, just that something would occur. When Harry Potter had arrived back onto the Quidditch Pitch clutching tightly to a dead Cedric Diggory, Draco had been shocked. He had spent the entire night after the events locked securely behind the curtains of his four poster contemplating why he had not felt pleased by what he had witnessed. It was the first time his allegiances had ever wavered.

After that night spent in thought Draco had tried to avoid Potter. He did not want to face living proof that what he had seen was true. Unfortunately, it was. There is a rule written somewhere that guarantees the more you want to avoid something the sooner it is you will end up having to face it. Draco had not been sulking in corners for any more than a day when he had stumbled on Potter looking exactly the same as he did right now. It was eerie.

Roman asked a few more questions and Potter offered up a few more answers before Monty was put under the spotlight and the same questions were asked all over again.

Their table was prime, overlooking a small garden, fairy lights sending beams of color sparkling across everyone's faces. If Draco was dining with different company he might have even called it romantic.

"Good table they gave us." Draco decided to voice his thoughts aloud.

"Yeah, I come here a lot," said Harry.

"So, you're a regular then?"

"I suppose you could call it that."

"Is the food any good?"

"The best."

"Why do you come here so much?"

"Oh, I only live a few blocks north from here. It's just in a handy location."

"That's nice."

"It is." Harry agreed. "So, uh, do you live near any good restaurants?"

"No."

"That's too bad."

"I guess."

"Yeah."

"Potter?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's just cut the shit, alright?"

"Cut the –"

Any response Potter was planning to make was drowned out by the arrival of everyone's food.

"Anything else I can get you all?"

Draco turned to glare at the waitress who had interrupted his tirade.

"An Irish coffee, Caitlyn." Harry answered first.

"Harry?" Caitlyn, who was gangly and freckled, asked. Harry nodded. "I didn't recognize you without Andrew. You never bring anyone else here." She stopped, realization exuding, "nothing happened between you two, did it?" Her voice had lowered.

"No, we're as fine as we've ever been." Harry said with a nervous smile, darting glances between Draco and Caitlyn. "I've come out to dinner with some new colleagues, is all."

Caitlyn nodded to Draco who nodded back and placed his order. Roman was too busy making a scene over his linguini to pay attention, while Monty and Meredith had their heads dipped low towards each other as they spoke.

"I'll leave you to it then." Caitlyn made her exit graciously, calling behind her shoulder, "Say hello to Andrew for me!"

"Who's Andrew?" Draco asked as soon as he and Harry were once again alone.

"He's my, well – you see, it's complicated…"

"Spit it out."

"He's my – boyfriend."

"You're a fruit, then?" Draco asked speculatively.

"No, a vegetable," replied Harry with a small smile.

"Clever," Draco remarked with a smirk.

"I know, isn't it?"

"Really, a boyfriend?"

"Yeah, it's been, what? Close to three years now?" Harry shook his head in disbelief. "I forget it's been that long sometimes."

"I never would have pegged you for being gay." Draco said with a snort.

"Well, I never would have pegged you the type for fleeing restaurants with skinny women without leaving a tip."

They both took a pause as Harry's drink was delivered to the table.

"You've grown a backbone Potter, bravo."

"I've always had one."

"Is this awkward for you as well?" Harry's voice broke into Draco's thoughts.

"No." Draco lied smoothly. "It's just different."

"Oh," said Harry, reaching his hand up to rub the back of his neck. "So, uh, that girl? Girlfriend?"

"She was nothing," said Draco, looking out the window. He watched a fly with morbid fascination as it collided into the web of a spider. The spider was nowhere to be seen, but Draco knew from experience that the time when you could not see your enemy was the time to be the most afraid of him.

"Draco? Are you listening to me?"

"Hmm, yes." Draco turned his attention back to Harry.

"So?"

"So what, Potter?"

"I asked you who she was," said Harry with barely concealed annoyance. "You said you were listening."

"I am," said Draco. "It must be this whole aging thing. It affects me in ways you couldn't even imagine."

"Draco, we're the same age."

"I _am_ a few months older than you, you'll remember."

Draco could not help but feel childish at the way he was behaving, but it suited his need for avoidance. It is one thing to talk, while a completely different matter to actually do. It was all well and good to declare that Potter was his new wet dream, but to confront the situation and try to make progress from fantasy to reality was an entirely different matter.

"Are you all right?"

Draco did not reply, but rather looked back out the window where a fly was wrapped in a cocoon of silver threads on the web of a spider.

**Scene II: Shoulders**

"And by the time we finished talking everyone else had gone home."

"That's – interesting," Pansy deadpanned.

After Draco's dinner with Harry and friends he had hustled as fast as possible to Pansy's flat, hoping against hope that she'd lend him a sympathetic ear. He had been in luck.

"This is the last thing I need right now, you know?"

"I know."

"Pansy, what am I going to do? Back in school I couldn't go a week without trying to pound Potter's face in and now the future of my career depends on me finding a way with dealing on avoiding a different sort of pounding! I've lost my focus."

"You know that's an over exaggeration," Pansy said calmly, gazing steadily at Draco.

"Hardly," scoffed Draco.

"Well, let's take your mind off things. Oliver sent me an owl. Have you heard what he did?"

It was very obvious to Draco that Pansy was itching for him to ask her about Oliver's life, diversionary tactic or not.

"I don't care what he's been up to. I don't even care about_ him_ anymore."

"Oh, Draco, come on."

"No."

Draco began to wonder if Pansy had ever heard of tact, because she was doing a wonderful job ignoring his feelings at the moment.

"Draco," said Pansy, her face softening. "I'm sorry – I forgot."

"How do you forget something like that?"

"I was just excited."

"Hmph," Draco's words were muffled as he buried his head in the couch pillow he'd been holding.

"I don't want to talk about him!" Draco fumed. "All I want to do is figure out how to deal with Potter!"

"Draco, as much as you don't want to hear this, it needs to be said," said Pansy sternly. "I know that this is all hard for you, but I can't tell you how to deal with Potter. That's something you need to figure out on your own terms."

"When did you stop being so stupid," mumbled Draco.

Pansy sent him a sharp look.

"Fine, tell me what Oliver did," said Draco, relenting.

Pansy's gaze softened. "He's getting married to that Brazilian girl."

Draco felt his heart stop in his chest.

"This day just keeps getting better and better," Draco said with a heavy sigh.

"He invited me to the wedding," continued Pansy. "I'm sure you'll find an invitation when you get home as well."

"Oh, yes," Draco said, his voice detached.

"Draco," Pansy said, her voice taking on a tone of concern. "Don't be like that."

Draco's mind buzzed as it went into overload. What had happened to his fabulous morning mood? It had to be Potter. That stupid twat always would show up at the most opportune moment back in school and ruin everything, and now he seemed to be trying to make the tradition into something consistent. Even if Potter's existence was causing a different sort of ruing this time around, Draco did not approve of the matter at all.

"I think I'll just go check for that letter," announced Draco, getting to his feet and putting on his overcoat. "Thanks for lending me a shoulder. I feel much better now." Draco knew he was lying, and from the look in her eyes, Pansy did as well.

But, she just nodded her acknowledgement.

"Bye," Draco said gruffly, turning his back on his old friend and striding into the hall and to the door. His hand was on the knob when a hurried, "Wait," hit his ears.

"You take care." Pansy said, moving forward and kissing Draco on the cheek. That odd sort of worry was still shining in her eyes. Draco did not want to see it. He turned, opened the door and apparated without another word.

The first thing he noticed after reaching his flat was that there was no letter from Oliver, or from anyone. Draco found himself staring blankly at the smooth piece of mahogany that would have held the invitation, if it existed, and altering between a washing state of relief and a wrenching state of betrayal.

He hurt, and when Draco hurt, that was the only thing that mattered.


	5. Act Four

**Scheherazade **

**Cadence Claire**

**Act Four**

**Scene One: Again**

Draco's sleep was not easy. It was troubled and turbulent. A few times during the night he awoke, curled into his robe, and carried Sophie against his chest into the living room only to stand and stare at Potter's books settled so innocently on the coffee table.

Despite her flaws, Sophie was a loyal companion. As persnickety as she was, she knew the times that Draco needed cuddles and purrs. She was the only thing that stopped Draco from crying no more than a few tears over Oliver, Bernice, and faceless others. Instead of sobbing, Draco curled his head into her neck and railed against the world. It was unfair that he, such a hopeless romantic, should be so hopeless at romance.

Hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless. That is how he felt.

It was not his scene currently. Roman and Monty were acting out a heated discussion with Perret nodding sagely from the side. Perret did not nod like that when Draco mounted the stage. Draco did not get it. Perret had hired him with full knowledge of his acting expertise and Draco had been utilizing every tool of the trade he possessed on his belt. Nothing he did seemed to satisfy the old man. Instead, Perret would scoff and ask him if he knew what he was talking about. He would sneer and ask Draco if he had read the book. He would sigh and tell someone else to offer an opinion. Draco did not think he was that shit poor at his job.

To make matters worse, Potter sat in the back the entire time scribbling in that stupid notebook that was always propped up on his right knee. And if that was not enough, Draco could feel Potter's interested gaze on the side of his face as he watched Monty flawlessly deliver a line. Prick.

Practice that day was both long and short.

After Monty and Roman finished, Meredith worked on some small solo performances that could be graciously called soliloquies. After she finished, with a few jabs from Perrret and a pointed hint that she should spend a long time considering her character, Draco once again took center stage.

Damn Potter was staring a hole into his forehead.

"I want the scene from yesterday," said Perret.

Draco nodded, cleared his throat, and began.

This time around he took a more logical approach with the lines. He discussed the imaginary love letter as if it were a scholarly piece from a professor's journal. Cool, detached disinterest filled his voice and he found himself gaining confidence as Perret graced him with a little nod.

Once Draco had finished, Perret demanded he re-recite the lines.

"Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life," drawled Draco.

Again.

"Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life," whispered Draco.

Again.

"Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life," said Draco, sarcasm dripping.

Again.

"Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life," spat Draco.

Again.

"Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life," roared Draco.

He was pissed off. So pissed off. Who did Perret think he was anyway?

"Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life," repeated Draco, fire behind every word.

Perret did not interrupt him. Draco punched the fist clenching his script down onto his thigh twice.

"Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl," his voice cracked, spittle flew from his lips. "Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?"

His voice cracked again, his left eyelid twitched, and he thrust the opposite hand into his mussed hair, biting his lip, turning away, wanting to scream and rant and rave about how not fair this entire process was.

As Draco stood stock still and stony, he noticed the quiet of the room. Draco turned back to the audience, mentally flinching as he prepared to repeat the words he had already uttered so many times.

Monty stood, arms crossed with a furrowed brow. Meredith was halfway through tying her hair back, obviously having stopped in the middle. Roman was grinning broad as daylight. And Potter. Harry Potter sat in the exact same pose he had been sitting in since he arrived that morning. His notebook propped on his knee, his body leaning slightly over in the same direction, and his bag resting against his opposite side. His pen was poised, stopped mid-sentence, and his mouth was open just enough that Draco could, as far away from the other man as he was, make out the pearly white of his two front teeth. Potter's eyes were fixed right on Draco's own.

"Excellent," said Perret, the first one to break the silence and snap Draco to attention. "That's why I hired you. Right there, is why I hired you. We're done for the day."

Perret walked away from the stage and out the door, gesturing for Auggie to follow behind him. Auggie did as directed, stumbling the whole way and offering a parting wave to the cast who, although they had now moved since the end of Draco's performance, were still remarkably subdued.

Draco felt his cheeks heat. What had that been? Obviously, he had done something right to merit praise from Perret for the first time all rehearsal. But still, the entire situation had been so red and fast and powerful. It was hard for him to grasp his feelers around it.

It seemed as though the rest of the cast felt similarly. Draco remained standing on the stage and watched as Monty left with a nod, Meredith blew him a kiss, and Roman waved while he chatted to someone on his mobile.

Only Potter and Draco remained in the theatre after the door had closed behind Roman.

Potter had now leant back in his chair, balancing the notebook on his knee the way a school girl balanced a book on her head.

Draco became uncomfortable with Potter's obvious scrutiny. Hell, up until last night Draco had had designs on Potter. But, as immoral as he was, Draco was just moral enough not to try and trace patterns on a man who already had someone to love. Draco did not steal love from other people. Now Potter was off limits, Draco was depressed and confused, and really they would all be better off if Potter would please just stop staring at him like that immediately.

Keen to be done with the day, Draco cleared his throat and folded his script so that it was no longer bent open to an appropriate page, but firmly closed. He moved down the stairs of the stage and hastily snatched his coat from the front row seat he had tossed it on that morning.

"Draco!"

Potter. Rotten stupid Potter was, once again, impeding his progress.

Potter stood up from his spot and hurriedly pushed his notebook into his bag. He grabbed it and his coat and rushed down the aisle until he was standing a few feet from Draco.

Draco cocked his head to one side when Potter said nothing.

Finally, "you were amazing," came out of Potter's pretty ruby colored lips.

"Thanks," said Draco.

"Really, that was a powerful recitation."

"Really, thanks," said Draco, deliberately parroting Potter.

Draco shrugged his coat on, but as he marched purposefully past Potter and toward the door he felt a hand grasp onto his elbow.

"Hey," said Potter, voice soft, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Draco.

"Bollocks," said Potter.

"No thanks," said Draco.

Draco tried to push his way past Potter and out of his grip, but the meddlesome twit had stepped in front of his path firmly blocking off any chance he had of escape.

"Seriously, what's wrong?"

"I had a rough night, ok? Is that what you want to hear?"

Draco could feel the same anger and frustration that had led him to his outburst on stage rising up inside of him again. And that stupid Potter would not let go of him no matter how many times he tried yanking his arm out of his grasp.

"Let me go," demanded Draco.

"Want to get a coffee?"

Draco stopped and looked blankly at Potter's earnest face. He was chewing his bottom lip (a lip that Draco would happily chew for him) and his eyes were nervous.

"You want to get a coffee with me?"

"Or a tea. You know, I'm not all that preferential," said Potter, still chewing on that lip of his.

"A tea or a coffee drink? With you?"

"I thought I'd established that. Sounds good, yeah?"

All of the sudden Draco was transported to memories of the war. It had been a dark gloomy night when he knocked on Potter's door to collect him. That had been the night Draco had picked the bloody parchment off of Potter's skull and pocketed it. Potter had been all spluttery and inelegant as always. Conversely, Draco had remained as unflappable and in control as he normally was. And in that moment, in the war, in a dank earthen tunnel Draco had asked Potter if he trusted him and Potter had kept asking for confirmation that Draco actually asked what Potter thought he asked until finally Potter said yes on the whole trusting issue. That yes had swelled Draco's heart and, in this moment of remembrance as Potter kept spluttering about how when pressed Americans could wrangle up a decent cup of Darjeeling so getting a tea would not be all that traumatic, Draco realized that he had indeed possessed feelings toward Harry for quite some time. Harry, not Potter.

Because this inarticulate, monstrously adorable buffoon standing before him was not Potter. No, Potter glowered and bumped and banged his way through hallways. He was short-tempered, quick to judge, quicker to find himself judged, and all in all a right sanctimonious prick if Draco had ever met one.

This man in front of him was quietly strong, a hint of shyness mixed in with refreshing brashness that Draco had never really seen in the same combination before. People were shy or they were brash, but Harry managed to be a bit of both at the same time. And Draco had no fucking clue how he did it.

" – and, you know, if you're more of a coffee drink fan the states are really prime – "

"You really want me to get a coffee with you."

It was more of an enlightened realization than a question.

"Yeah, yeah I do."

"All right then. You buy," said Draco, pulling out of Potter's suddenly slackened grasp and strolling toward the doorway.

Potter stood standing where he had been standing for the whole exchange, his head tilted back to watch Draco now.

"Don't just stand there. I want a coffee," said Draco, a bit of his old trademark smirk in place.

Potter beamed back at him, nodded, and obediently trotted out of the empty theater behind Draco.

Maybe things were going to end up being a bit of all right after all.

**Scene II: Those Pesky Little Things**

"Did he really?" Draco wheezed, clutching his side in a vain effort to stop his laughing.

Harry nodded in affirmation, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

"Yeah, Hermione gave him what for, but still."

"Merlin, who else is left of the old crowd?"

"Seamus works for a gossip column now," Harry offered.

"Finnigan?" Draco snorted. "Boring. Is he really shacking up with Thomas?"

"Yup," Harry said, calling the bartender over for another shot.

They had made it to coffee and tea. Of course, Harry had been horribly wrong about Americans and their brewing skills. The Darjeeling tasted like swill and the coffee like gillyweed. So they opted to get plastered instead.

"You know," Draco said, taking an elegant sip of his martini, "I'm surprised Pansy hasn't already told me all of this. She's usually more on top of gossip than anyone I know."

"It's mainly Gryffindor gossip, isn't it? At least the stuff I know," Potter said, accepting the proffered whiskey sour. "That's not exactly the sort of stuff Pansy would be interested in. I mean, as far back as I reckon she never put much stock in the people who sat on the other end of the hall."

"Except she had the horn for Longbottom back in sixth year," Draco said.

"Really?" Harry gasped. He looked like the canary that got the cream, minus the Weasley add-ons.

"Really. I heard more about Longbottom than I ever wanted to hear about anyone by the time we hit October. None of his secrets were safe from her."

"I wonder if he knew," Harry mused absently.

"Doubt it. He was never that observant," Draco said.

"Yeah, he was," Harry said, "just about the right stuff. Anyway, Slytherin gossip then?"

"Zabini's dating a muggle," Draco said, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. "Bit of a paradox that one. Incredibly shaggable though."

"Zabini or the muggle?" Harry asked.

"Both," Draco said.

"You're a fruit as well?" Harry asked, perking up from his somewhat slumped position.

"Bi, Harry. I'm bi," Draco said, taking another sip of his martini.

"Huh," Harry said, leaning his elbows forward so they were resting on the bar itself. Draco watched Harry watch the bartender putter around with a rag and a bottle of seltzer water. "That is, all in all, unsurprising," Harry finally said, tilting his head so he was starting at Draco full on. "I mean really, when you think about it, you out of everyone would define sexual preference that way. Doesn't quite explain the actual execution of it, but it makes sense."

"What's so hard about the execution?" Draco asked.

"Innuendo much?"

"Mind in the gutter much?" Draco said back, snapping a bit.

"I just never thought you'd deviate that way. What with your upbringing and all," Harry said with a small shrug. "Nothing wrong with it of course. Look at me." Harry gestured to himself with a small smirk and what looked to be a bit of a self-deprecating tilt to the head.

"Fair enough," Draco said.

"So that girl I saw you with?" Harry said in a far too fake voice that was trying it's best to be casual.

Draco inwardly sighed. There was a reason he was the actor of the pair.

"I thought we'd already discussed that," Draco said in a much more convincingly casual tone.

"Yeah," Harry said, once again chewing on his pretty pretty lip, "but you said she was nothing and I don't think you're being straight with me."

"I was being straight with her," Draco said.

"Now who's being a prick," Harry said with a smile, gently shoving Draco's arm with his shoulder. "So, was she honestly nothing?"

Draco thought on his answer for a few moments.

"No."

"What then?"

"A love interest."

"A beau?" Harry asked, eyes twinkling.

"More of a paramour," Draco countered.

"What's the difference?"

"She was married," Draco said, taking a sip.

"What?" Harry said, his voice raising a few octaves and his eyes widening almost comically.

"Well, legally married. They separated years ago and haven't bothered to make it official," Draco said.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

"That's sticky," Harry said.

"It could be. It was difficult to get used to the idea at first," Draco said, downing the rest of his drink and calling over for another one.

Harry was chewing on a few of the bar peanuts, his face pensive.

"I suppose it would be," Harry said, "mind you, I've never had an affair, I'm just speculating."

"Shit," Draco moaned.

"What?"

"I'm not drunk yet," Draco replied.

"Neither am I. Do you want to be drunk?"

"Right now, yes. I'd like to think it would make my current life a bit easier."

"Something wrong?"

"She left me."

"The married girl?"

"Yes, the married girl," Draco said.

"Mind if I ask why?" Harry asked.

"You just did."

"Mind if I ask why and expect an answer?" Harry asked, a sympathetically wry grin in place.

"Magic," Draco said.

"Huh?"

"Magic magic magic," Draco mumbled under his breath.

Harry watched him mumble very patiently.

"She was a muggle, I told her, and she freaked. Didn't think it was natural. Didn't want to be a part of it. Of course, Pansy is thrilled."

"Did you love her?" Harry asked.

"Almost."

"I know what that can be like," Harry said.

"How could you possibly know what that's like? You've been shacked up for three years all nice and cozy with the same man."

A shadow of something passed over Harry's face.

"Well, it hasn't always been cozy. No relationship is always cozy."

Draco winced. He had not meant to get this personal with Harry. If he got personal with the gorgeous man sitting in front of him it would be harder to detach later.

"I don't think so."

"Why?"

"I think everyone has a relationship out there, a person out there, that will make them cozy forever." Draco said.

"Like a soul mate?"

"Sure," Draco said with a shrug, "I don't think there has to be a name for it. I just know that I believe that everyone has that person."

"Wow," Harry said after a few minutes of contemplative silence.

"Hmm?"

"That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard anyone say."

"Oh shove it, Potter."

"And you just ruined it," Harry said, laughing. "To us, Malfoy."

Harry held out his drink.

Draco stared at it a few minutes before nodding and clinking his own glass against Harry's.

"And here's to finding your cozy person," Harry finished, swallowing the rest of his drink.

"Now that that's settled," Draco said, feeling quite uncomfortable with the now heavy mood between them, "let's get drunk."

"Indeed," Harry agreed, munching on a bar peanut and waving over the bartender.

**Scene III: Reverberations**

Draco was not sure how it happened exactly, but somehow he and Potter had snuggled into a friendship that made him feel warm and fuzzy in all the right places. A week since the evening at the bar and they had gone out after practice every single day. Dinner, drinks, more dinner, once a walk when Harry was feeling stir-crazy.

And Draco was wrenched by it.

"What do you think?" Draco asked Sophie. Said cat was perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, watching Draco's reflection in the mirror as he primped.

She, predictably, said nothing.

Draco's hands were shaking a little bit and, as he rubbed his hands together to warm his hair wax, wondered why for the millionth time he had agreed to an evening out with Harry. Draco ran his hands through his hair and then bent halfway over and shook his hair about as Sophie batted his head.

When Draco righted himself back up his hair was messily tousled, styled enough to look proper but mussed enough to look just shagged. Once again, he brushed imaginary lint off of his shoulder. He was wearing dark gray wool slacks with a lighter gray turtleneck sweater on top. Draco hoped Harry would like the outfit, especially since it had taken him a good year and a half to pick out.

"Hello, Harry," Draco said into the mirror, practicing his most charming smile.

Sophie flopped onto her back.

"Hullo," Draco said, extending a hand forward.

Sophie rolled onto her right side.

"Hi, hey, how's it going, howdy," Draco said under his breath as he took to pacing about the brightly lit bathroom.

Sophie rolled back over to her left side.

And then the doorbell rang.

It was a nice ring. Soft and chiming rather than harsh and jarring.

Sophie hopped down from her position on the counter and stalked Draco's progression to the front door.

Draco stopped in the main hall to check his appearance one last time. The bell rang again and he hurried to open it.

On the other side of the mahogany door stood Harry Potter in what Draco was sure was the epitome of his glory. He wore black dress pants with shiny black loafers and a white button up shirt with the first few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was the bare elbows that did it for Draco. What man in their right mind could ever resist rolled up sleeves and bare elbows?

It seemed Harry was appraising him as well.

"You look nice," Both Harry and Draco spoke at the same time.

For a moment Draco was unsure how to respond. That is, he was unsure of how to respond until Harry cracked and let out a small laugh.

"You look half way decent," Draco said, stepping aside and holding the door open a bit further, "come on in."

Sophie glared at Draco as Harry entered into the hallway as if to express her discontentment that he had let a stranger into the flat without asking her first.

"You have a cat!" Harry said delightedly, crouching down to the ground to get a better look at Sophie. "What's her name?" Harry looked up at Draco from his position on the floor. Draco swallowed. He could imagine a much more pleasant thing for Harry to do kneeled on the floor like that.

"Sophie. Sophia Rose to be exact, but I call her Sophie," Draco replied.

He watched fondly as Harry held his hand out for Sophie to sniff.

"Hullo Sophia Rose," Harry said, "you have a very pretty name."

Sophie purred her agreement and butted Harry's hand with her head as if she were commanding him to pet her immediately. Harry did so and Sophie continued her contented purr.

After a few moments Harry looked back up at Draco, "well, your cat likes me. That's a good sign, I'd say."

Draco laughed.

Harry stood up and stuck one hand in his pant pocket and ran the other one through his hair.

"Ready?" Harry asked.

"Let me grab my coat," Draco said, turning and walking quickly toward the bedroom.

Once he reached his closet, Draco realized that Sophie had not followed him. He slipped the heavy black material over his shoulders and pushed the few buttons into their respective holes and then went to peep out the door.

Harry was now sitting cross-legged on the floor with Sophie happily settled in the hammock his legs made.

Draco allowed himself a brief fantasy as he watched Harry cuddle his cat. In his fantasy she was Harry's cat too.

"I'm starting to question her allegiances," Draco called down the hall.

It did no good to dwell on things that could never become reality.

Harry raised his head at Draco's voice and shot him a sideways smile.

"Nah, she was watching the door waiting for you to come out," Harry said as he disentangled himself from a no longer pleased Sophie. She stared at Harry indignantly.

"What?" Harry asked her, using a fakey sweet sort of voice accompanied with the dramatic placement of his hands on his hips.

Sophie raised her nose at him, turned, and walked away.

"I think you've offended her," Draco said, grabbing his scarf from the coat rack and wrapping it around his neck.

"Most likely," Harry said. "Shall we be off?"

"Yes," Draco said, swiping his key and wand off the decorative table Bernice had insisted he buy and slipped them into his jacket pocket.

He opened the door and held it open for Harry. Draco started walking behind Harry when the brunette turned around and took a step toward Draco, bumping into him. Draco felt his face heat. Harry smiled apologetically, but stayed where he was standing, calling over Draco's shoulder, "goodbye Sophia Rose!"

"That was quaint," Draco managed as Harry turned back around and continued in his progression down the hall.

He walked quickly to the lift and jabbed the button impatiently.

"I've always wanted a pet," Harry said wistfully, leaning against the wall.

"Why not get one then?" Draco asked.

"Andrew doesn't want one," Harry said, his voice sad.

Ah, the elusive Andrew. Harry barely ever mentioned him and if he did it was only in passing. There had been a few occasions when Draco had pressed for information such as occupation and zodiac sign, but each time he did Harry would offer a brief response and then clam up.

"Allergic?"

"No, just doesn't like animals," Harry said.

The lift arrived and the doors opened with a ping. Draco let Harry step in before him and then followed into the softly lit contraption. His skin tingled from the slight brush of fingers across his arm as Harry leaned forward to punch the lobby button.

"Just buy something furry and bring it home," Draco said, "I didn't want a cat, but Bernice brought one home anyway. She's grown on me since then."

"No, no that wouldn't work."

"Well –"

"Draco, look, it wouldn't work," Harry said, tense.

Draco was about to reply when Harry softened the mood with a, "besides, now that I've met Sophia Rose I can just come bug you whenever I start wanting a pet of my own."

Draco's heart leapt at the thought of Harry taking up semi-permanent residence in his home even if it was just to hang out with his cat.

"I'm sure she'd like that," Draco said.

"Well, maybe. I did offend her, as you'll recall," Harry said.

The lift arrived at the lobby and opened with another ping. Once again Harry exited first and Draco followed. He was not that upset by this detail seeing as Harry had a perfectly pert backside that Draco was keen to ogle.

"I've rented a cab," Harry said, nodding to the doorman as they walked past him.

"Has it been running this whole time?" Draco asked.

Harry nodded as he pushed the door open and walked into the bitter night air. Draco shivered and tightened his coat around his frame.

"You should have said something. I'd of gotten out the door faster," Draco admonished gently.

"It's not a big deal. Besides, I had a fun time with Sophia Rose," Harry said. He reached out to the yellow cab and held the door open for Draco.

"Thanks," Draco said, slipping through the door and sliding across to the far end of the bench to make room for Harry. His body sighed at the warm heat of the cab.

"It's rather sad that all we've talked about is your cat," Harry said after he had settled himself and slammed the door shut.

"She's an interesting cat," Draco said.

Harry smiled.

"So you still haven't told me where you're taking me," Draco offered, his voice cajoling.

"Well, I'm feeding you first," Harry said.

"Naturally," Draco said.

"But the real surprise will wait until later," Harry said.

Draco settled into his seat with a smile at that statement. He was, quite overtly, pleased with himself. He had set out to snag Potter and he had ended up with a friend in Harry. Of course, he would have been right chuffed if this night out on the town was a date, but it was not.

Draco's conflicted feelings plagued him all through his delectable dinner at the quaint restaurant Harry had chosen. He went back and forth back and forth. Every time green eyes glittered at him Draco would picture them darkening, turning black with lust and need and, above all, want. Every time plump red lips smiled at him Draco would picture them whispering much more tender endearments than the wine list. Every time those bare elbows rested on the table Draco would picture grabbing that elbow and using it to tug the rest of Harry's body into a tight embrace he would never willingly relinquish.

Draco had it bad. And if he was reading Harry's twinkling laugh and coy eyelash flutters properly, then maybe, he thought, just maybe, Harry had something for him as well.


End file.
